Columbia  S^nito  rtfitp 
mtlirCttpofUmigork 

THE  LIBRARIES 


O.  P.   FITZGERALD. 


FIFTY  YEAES: 


Observations— Opinions— Experiences, 


BY 

BISHOP  O.  P.  FITZGERALD. 


W*  «p#rwl  our  years  at  a  tale  that  is  told."— Psalm  xc.  9. 


>     i    i 


Nashville,  Tenn.;  Dallas,  Tex.: 

Publishing  House  of  the  M.  E.  Church,  South. 

Bigham  &  Smith,  Agents. 

1903. 


7A2 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1903, 

By  the  Book  Agents  of  the  M.  E.  Church,  South, 

Nashville,  Tenn., 

In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Between  Us. 

It  does  seem  that  what  is  to  be  will  be.  In  good 
faith,  and  for  what  seemed  to  be  good  reasons.  I  gave 
up  the  purpose  to  write  a  book  on  the  men  and  the 
times  I  have  seen.  I  so  announced  in  the  preface  to 
another  book  which  I  did  risk  in  print,  and  which  has 
had  a  kindly  reception  from  an  indulgent  public. 
Since  then  I  have  had  another  shut-in  season,  and 
from  force  of  habit,  and  with  some  hope  that  these 
chapters  might  also  be  read  with  some  profit  and 
pleasure,  I  let  them  take  shape  as  they  are.  Ob- 
servations—  Opinions  —  Experiences  —  things  that  I 
have  seen,  thought,  and  felt  from  time  to  time,  off  and 
on  during  the  last  fifty  years — this  indicates  the  scope 
of  this  volume. 

The  time  cannot  be  far  off  when  the  date  of  my  last 
appearance  will  be  definite.  The  conviction  that  this 
must  be  so  has  perhaps  imparted  more  of  freedom  to 
some  of  these  chapters — a  sort  of  posthumous  tender- 
ness and  solemnity,  so  to  speak.  At  this  moment 
there  is  in  my  heart  only  good  will  to  every  human 
being:  if  anything  said  in  these  pages  seems  to 
breathe  a  different  spirit,  put  it  down  to  my  awkward- 
ness. And  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I  should  seem  to  be 
effusive  in  speaking  of  persons  I  love  in  different  re- 
lations, they  will  have  to  stand  it. 

O.  P.  Fitzgerald. 

Nashville,  Tenn. 

(3) 


Contents. 

PAGB 

About  Preaching  and  Preachers 7 

A  Resolution  Broken 15 

About  Editors  and  Editing 21 

More  About  the  Editors 31 

With  and  About  the  Doctors 43 

With  and  About  the  Lawyers 59 

The  Bishops 71 

Where  My  Road  Forked 97 

About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics 103 

About  Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers 115 

With  the  Baptists 127 

My  Student 135 

An  Expanded  East  Tennessean 145 

The  Caning  I  Got  in  California 157 

With  the  Irish 165 

A  Boston  Morning  Call 175 

Le  Conte 181 

The  Night  I  Saw  and  Heard  Edgar  Allan  Poe..  189 

Some  Doctors  of  Divinity 201 

That  New  Grave  in  the  Far  East 211 

An  Experience 217 

The  Unsleeping  Night  Watch 223 

All  Creation 229 

California  in  War  and  Peace 235 

From  Padan-aram  Back  to  Bethel 243 

(5) 


ABOUT  PREACHING  AND 
PREACHERS. 

(7) 


About  Preaching  and  Preachers. 

I  began  to  preach  when  about  four  years  old. 
Our  family  were  among  the  "campers"  at  the  old 
Sharon  Camp  Ground  in  Rockingham  County, 
North  Carolina,  where  the  preaching,  the  singing, 
the  praying,  and  all  the  other  exercises  were  of  the 
liveliest  kind.  Those  Methodists  were  an  earnest 
people.  They  were  the  sort  of  persons  described 
in  the  seventeenth  chapter  of  the  Acts  of  the  Apos- 
tles— the  men  that  have  turned  the  world  upside 
down.  Wherever  they  went  a  stir  was  expected. 
Of  one  of  these  fervent  evangelists  of  that  day  it 
is  reported  that  he  opened  his  campaign  by  preach- 
ing from  the  text  above  mentioned:  "These  that 
have  turned  the  world  upside  down  have  come 
hither  also."  (Acts  xvii.  6.)  He  said:  "My  dear 
hearers,  my  sermon  is  divided  into  three  parts. 
First,  this  world  is  wrong  side  up.  Second,  it  must 
be  turned  right  side  up  again.  Third,  we  are  the 
men  to  do  it."  And  so  they  did.  With  a  sort  of 
instinct  that  I  felt  then,  and  which  never  left  me, 
on  the  return  of  the  family  to  our  home  after  the 

(9) 


io  Fifty  Years. 

camp  meeting  closed,  I  began  to  hold  a  meeting  of 
my  own.  Gathering  together  the  little  children, 
white  and  black,  under  one  of  the  big  black-heart 
cherry  trees,  what  meetings  we  had!  I  was  the 
preacher;  they  all  sang  with  immense  energy,  and 
all  the  exercises  were  conducted  in  true  camp- 
meeting  style.  We  had  penitential  kneeling  and 
praying,  we  had  professions  of  conversion,  and  re- 
ceptions into  Church  membership — all  in  crude  im- 
itation of  the  older  folk.  Tremendous  excitement 
at  times  possessed  us.  My  own  exhortations, 
though  doubtless  ludicrous  to  any  older  persons 
who  chanced  to  hear  them,  were  impassioned  and 
urgent.  To  this  hour  I  remember  how  intensely 
I  felt,  and  with  what  good  faith  I  repeated  the 
words  of  warning  and  invitation  spoken  by  the 
fiery  yet  persuasive  evangelists.  Doubtless  to  this 
hour  the  spirit  and  methods  of  my  ministry  have 
been  influenced  by  this  juvenile  experience.  Those 
preachers  of  that  early  day  looked  and  worked  for 
immediate  results — and,  as  a  rule,  they  were  re- 
warded according  to  their  faith.  Following  their 
example  in  my  actual  ministry  in  maturer  years, 
it  has  happened  not  seldom  that  at  the  close  of  a 
sermon — not  knowing  the  secrets  of  the  hearts  of 
my  hearers — I  have  given  opportunity  for  any  per- 


About  Preaching  and  Preachers.      1 1 

son  or  persons  so  inclined  to  make  some  formal 
movement  toward  Christian  discipleship,  and  felt 
a  solemn  and  unspeakable  joy  in  welcoming  those 
who  responded  to  the  invitation.  There  is  need 
that  preachers  of  the  gospel  guard  against  the  dan- 
ger of  revolving  on  the  rusty  axis  of  a  perfunctory 
ministry.  To  warn  sinners  of  the  wrath  to  come, 
and  then  to  dismiss  them  coldly,  looks  absurd,  if 
not  insincere.  To  magnify  the  Church  as  the  pil- 
lar and  ground  of  the  truth,  and  as  the  fold  of  the 
Good  Shepherd,  and  then  offer  no  opportunity  for 
any  person  or  persons  to  enter  that  fold  by  formal 
union  with  the  Church  then  and  there,  makes  the 
same  impression  of  absurdity  and  insincerity.  Or- 
ganized Christianity  is  not  merely  a  form  of  words 
and  a  round  of  mechanical  observances.  A  living 
ministry  makes  a  living  Church;  a  living  Church  is 
a  growing  Church ;  a  growing  Church  takes  in  and 
assimilates  fresh  material  continually — so  the  Old 
Book  teaches.  The  "door  of  the  Church"  ought 
to  be  kept  open  always.  The  back  door — the  way 
of  egress  from  the  Church — cannot  be  entirely 
closed,  yet  should  be  seldom  used.  Let  the  dis- 
eased member  be  healed — if  possible — as  the  Mas- 
ter enjoins.  Pastoral  fidelity  will  save  in  most 
cases.     Brethren  of  the  ministry,  bring  them  in; 


12  Fifty  Years. 

watch  over  them  in  love;  give  up  no  soul  as  lost 
while  life  lasts.  A  perfunctory  Christianity  is 
ready  for  burial.  Its  epitaph  may  be  written  in  the 
Master's  own  words:  "Cut  it  down:  why  cum- 
bereth  it  the  ground?"  God's  judgment  fires  have 
consumed  some  dead  ecclesiasticisms:  those  that 
remain  must  take  on  new  life,  or  share  the  same 
fate. 

The  preachers  I  have  heard  file  in  solemn  pro- 
cession before  my  mental  vision  as  I  write  this 
chapter  at  Monteagle,  Tennessee,  on  Tuesday, 
August  26,  1902.  Among  them  I  recognize  some 
elsewhere  mentioned  by  me,  with  others  whose 
preaching  broadened  my  vision  and  exalted  my 
conception  of  the  dignity  and  glory  of  the  pulpit. 
Early  in  life  I  learned  that  clumsy  syntax  and  de- 
fective pronunciation  did  not  nullify  the  effective- 
ness of  preaching  which  had  in  it  common  sense  and 
true  faith.  At  a  later  period  I  learned  also  that 
polished  rhetoric  and  thorough  scholarship  might 
coexist  with  apostolic  fervor  and  fruitfulness. 
Some  effective  preachers  were  readers  of  sermons; 
most  of  them  were  not.  It  is  my  opinion  that  the 
tendency  in  the  direction  of  sermon-reading  in  the 
pulpit  has  gone  far  enough  among  the  people  called 
Methodists.     Manuscript  is  a  nonconductor  in  the 


About  Preaching  and  Preachers.        13 

pulpit — as  a  rule:  the  exceptions  are  rare.  My 
advice  to  such  preachers  as  may  be  tempted,  from 
any  cause,  to  read  their  sermons  is:  Don't.  If 
need  be,  make  your  discourses  shorter;  have  fewer 
"divisions"  in  the  plans  of  them;  and  trust  the 
Lord  who  hath  promised  to  be  with  you  in  the 
power  of  the  Holy  Ghost.  The  fact  that  I  used 
written  notes  quite  freely  on  my  last  official  rounds 
was,  as  my  brethren  know,  because  of  my  extreme 
nervous  debility.  But  if  I  had  to  go  over  this  part 
of  my  work  again,  I  think  I  would  ask  for  stronger 
faith  and  read  no  sermons. 

Note. — In  another  connection  I  have  spoken  in  these  words 
of  two  Nashville  preachers  whose  names  are  familiar  to  some 
of  my  readers :  "Dr.  Joseph  B.  West,  a  man  who  knew  books 
and  loved  his  fellow,  a  man  who  in  his  sunny  moods  was  as 
bright  as  a  June  morning  on  the  Cumberland  hills,  who  in 
his  deepest  thinking  touched  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  souls 
of  thoughtful  men ;  Robert  A.  Young,  towering  a  head  and 
shoulders  above  his  fellows  in  intellectual  gifts  as  in  physical 
stature,  who  preached  a  gospel  that  was  clear  and  strong  and 
persuasive."  Both  of  them  have  crossed  over  to  join  the  com- 
pany before  them  gone  into  the  Mystery  and  Silence  whither 
we  will  soon  follow  them. 

There  are  some  notables  among  the  preachers  still  living 
that  I  am  tempted  to  mention  here — but  we  are  not  yet  ready 
for  their  epitaphs  or  biographies.  Another  hand  will  hold 
the  brush  when  their  pictures  are  painted. 


A  RESOLUTION  BROKEN 

('5) 


A  Resolution  Broken. 

"Brother  Fitzgerald,  you  should  do  nothing 
else  but  go  around  telling  anecdotes." 

So  said  Dr.  Lewis  Bascom  to  me  at  his  dinner 
table  one  day  in  1857.  I  was  one  of  a  very  lively 
dinner  party  given  by  the  mistress  of  the  Bascom 
ranch  near  San  Jose  in  the  beautiful  Santa  Clara 
Valley,  California.  Blessed  little  woman!  She 
saw  both  the  tragic  and  the  amusing  sides  of  hu- 
man nature,  and  had  a  heart  as  tender  as  mother- 
hood and  a  wit  not  biting  but  as  bright  as  sunshine. 
Dr.  Bascom  was  the  half-brother  of  the  great  pul- 
pit orator,  Bishop  Henry  B.  Bascom.  He  was  a 
steward  in  the  church  of  which  I  was  then  the  pas- 
tor, and  he  had  named  a  boy  for  me.  He  meant 
his  remark  kindly,  but  it  was  a  center  shot,  hitting 
me  in  a  vulnerable  spot.  He  had  "laughed  until 
he  cried,"  as  the  saying  goes,  over  some  anecdote 
related  by  his  young  pastor,  and  all  he  meant  was 
that  he  was  mightily  amused  over  it. 

"Is  that  so?"  I  said  to  myself.     "Only  fit  to  tell 
anecdotes.     Here  is  a  revelation  and  a  warning. 
*  (17) 


18  Fifty  Years. 

I  will  never  tell  another  anecdote  as  long  as  I  live." 
And  I  did  quit — for  the  rest  of  that  day. 

Of  course  my  friendly  reader  knows  that  I  back- 
slid— so  to  speak.  But  the  remark  of  my  friend 
did  me  good.  It  ought  to  have  done  me  more 
good  than  it  did.  I  have  told  too  many  anecdotes, 
yielding  to  a  tendency  in  that  direction  which  mani- 
fested itself  at  a  very  early  period  of  my  life,  and  at 
times  turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  voice  I  most  loved 
to  hear. 

What  do  I  think  of  this  matter  now,  as  I  look 
back  over  the  forty-five  years  that  have  flown  by 
from  1857  to  1902?  Well,  it  seems  pretty  clear 
to  me  that  my  resolution  was  on  a  right  line,  but 
rather  ultra.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  should  have 
been  not  prohibitory  but  regulative,  so  to  speak. 
It  would  have  been  about  as  wise  to  make  a  reso- 
lution against  shedding  tears.  It  is  no  more  wrong 
to  laugh  than  to  cry.  The  risible  muscles  are  as 
truly  God's  work  as  the  lachrymal  glands.  There 
is  a  time  to  laugh — says  the  Old  Book.  It  takes 
both  good  sense  and  good  taste  to  decide  when 
that  time  comes.  Many  times  have  I  left  the  pul- 
pit in  a  penitential  mood  because  I  had  allowed 
myself  a  latitude  therein  which  I  felt  to  be  ex- 
cessive.    The  people  laughed  or  smiled,  and  kept 


A  Broken  Resolution.  19 

awake  while  I  was  thus  talking  to  them.  And  I 
have  not  seldom  observed  also  that  on  meeting, 
years  afterwards,  persons  who  had  "sat  under"  my 
preaching,  the  parts  of  my  sermons  most  distinctly 
remembered  were  the  parts  that  had  a  flavor  of 
humor.  This  very  day — August  29,  1902 — a  call- 
er reminded  me  of  a  passage  of  that  sort  in  a  ser- 
mon preached  by  me  fifteen  years  ago. 

This  tendency  in  the  direction  of  humorous 
preaching  grows  by  habit.  The  denunciatory 
preacher  began  with  pertinent  and  pointed  allu- 
sions to  current  evils  and  errors,  and  ended  by 
becoming  a  common  scold.  The  slangy  preacher 
began  by  the  use  of  an  occasional  vulgarism  that 
was  striking,  and  before  he  knew  it  the  larger 
part  of  his  talk  ran  into  that  muddy  stream.  The 
brother  who  astonished  and  grieved  his  brethren 
by  the  fury  with  which  he  rode  a  doctrinal  hobby, 
began  by  expressing  only  a  righteous  and  rational 
displeasure  at  the  utter  neglect  of  it  by  his  apa- 
thetic coworkers.  The  brother  who  left  the  pas- 
torate to  champion  a  moral  reform  on  the  hustings, 
at  the  start  began  to  stir  up  his  parishioners  with 
no  such  intention.  Blessed  is  that  servant  whom 
his  Lord  when  he  cometh  shall  find  giving  all  their 
portions  in  due  season — preaching  a  gospel  that 


20  Fifty  Years. 

searches  the  depths  of  the  hearts  of  men  and  strikes 
at  the  root  of  every  evil  that  curses  the  world.  Is 
this  a  digression? — if  so,  so  be  it.  The  substance 
of  what  I  wished  to  say  is  this:  Let  preachers  of 
the  gospel  guard  against  all  sorts  of  mere  oddities 
and  eccentricities,  including  funniness  for  its  own 
sake.  There  is  a  time  to  laugh,  but  it  does  not 
come  often  to  the  pulpit  in  a  world  like  this.  There 
is  not  much  place  for  giggling  in  the  pulpit  in  the 
presence  of  men  and  women  who  are  burdened  with 
care  and  grief  and  pain. 

The  pastor  whose  heart  is  human  and  whose 
soul  is  devout  will  be  wanted  alike  at  the  bridal 
and  the  burial  in  the  homes  of  his  people.  It  re- 
quires no  mechanical  effort  on  his  part  to  obey  the 
Master's  injunction  to  "rejoice  with  them  that  do 
rejoice,  and  weep  with  them  that  weep."  He  has 
the  Master's  spirit,  who  at  the  wedding  feast  turned 
the  water  into  wine,  symbolizing  the  infusion  of 
a  heavenly  joy  into  human  love;  whose  word  to 
the  grief-stricken  ones  at  the  grave  turned  its 
gloom  into  glory  immortal.  The  mystery  of  it  we 
cannot  explain:  the  joy  of  it  we  can  and  do  feel. 


ABOUT  EDITORS  AND  EDITING 

(21) 


About  Editors  and  Editing. 

This  chapter  would  have  written  itself  if  I  had 
hesitated  to  do  it.  I  have  been  with  the  editors  all 
my  life  in  one  way  or  another,  and  have  had  a  place 
among  them  as  a  fellow-workman  during  the  bus- 
iest season  of  my  life.  When  some  years  ago  I 
was  notified  that  I  had  been  elected  chaplain  of 
the  Tennessee  Press  Association,  I  thought  of  my 
boy  Lee,  whom  they  all  knew  and  loved,  and  the 
fountains  of  a  sacred  sorrow  were  stirred  within 
me.  That  chaplaincy  made  all  the  younger  men 
of  the  Tennessee  Press  Association  "my  boys,"  as 
it  seemed  to  me,  when  our  boy  Lee  died  in  my 
arms  that  dark  night,  going,  as  we  trusted,  from 
parental  love  in  its  weakness  and  heart-break  on 
earth  to  the  Love  Divine  whose  mystery  baffles 
us,  but  which  satisfies  us  early  and  stays  with  us 
forever. 

The  daily  newspaper  is  one  of  the  costly  luxu- 
ries of  our  modern  civilization.  It  is  part  of  a  sys- 
tem that  is  artificial  and  unnatural.  The  turning 
of  the  night  that  was  meant  for  sleep  into  a  time  of 

(23) 


24  Fifty  Years. 

toil  is  not  a  good  thing.  The  newspaper  men,  the 
railroad  men,  the  telegraph  men,  the  hotel  men, 
and  all  the  rest  of  the  great  army  who  fight  this 
battle  against  the  natural  order — blessings  on  their 
busy  heads!  It  is  a  hard  battle  they  fight,  at 
best.  They  ought  to  be  generous  in  their  dealings 
with  each  other.  Their  rivalries  ought  to  be  such 
as  to  draw  out  what  is  manliest  and  most  magnani- 
mous in  their  natures,  avoiding  everything  that 
would  add  to  the  inevitable  hardships  of  their  call- 
ing the  wounds  and  stings  of  the  petty  rivalries 
that  have  nothing  at  stake  worth  a  tithe  of  what 
they  cost.  And,  kindly  reader  of  this  page,  a  word 
with  you  here:  When  you  sit  down  to  your  morn- 
ing meal,  and  glance  your  eye  over  the  morning 
newspaper  fresh  from  the  press,  with  the  ink 
scarcely  dry  on  its  pages,  think  kindly  of  the  press 
gang,  from  the  errand  boy  or  copyholder  to  the 
editor  in  chief  or  the  other  great  man  who  handles 
the  cash  as  it  comes  in  and  goes  out.  Another 
word  craves  utterance  in  this  connection,  even  if 
it  shall  be  spoken  in  vain,  namely:  Should  not  an 
attempt  be  made  to  arrest  this  tendency  of  our 
time  to  throw  the  night  season  given  to  us  for  rest 
and  slumber  into  the  mill  that  grinds  so  fearfully 
in   the  rush  and  roar  of  the  daytime?     Can  we 


About  Editors  and  Editing.  25 

retrace  our  steps,  and  go  back  to  the  primitive 
order,  to  work  by  day  and  rest  by  night?  The 
reader  smiles,  and  perchance  is  himself  one  of  these 
victims  of  a  system  that  nobody  likes  and  nobody 
resists.  Nothing  can  be  done,  you  say?  Under 
this  high  pressure  must  we  rush  on  until — what? 
A  crash  or  a  landing?  There  may  be  a  safe  land- 
ing: the  Conductor  is  aboard.  What  ought  to  be 
done  can  be  done.  One  generation  warns  another, 
but  does  not  handicap  it  except  by  consent.  Take 
courage,  brothers! — we  are  going  forward,  not 
backward. 

I  have  kept  company  with  the  editors  all  my 
life.  My  father  was  fond  of  polemics  and  politics. 
The  followers  of  John  Calvin  and  John  Wesley 
among  our  neighbors  were  zealous  and  disputa- 
tious. The  Whigs  and  the  Democrats  were  not 
less  ready  to  dispute  with  each  other.  I  heard 
both  sides,  but  it  will  point  a  moral  for  the  mil- 
lionth time  for  me  to  say  here  that  the  opinions 
adopted  or  absorbed  by  me  in  boyhood  are  sub- 
stantially my  opinions  at  this  writing  in  my 
seventy-fourth  year.  It  is  so  with  most  men  and 
women:  as  the  twig  is  bent,  the  tree  inclines.  The 
exceptions  are  rare — sometimes  they  are  very  hon- 
orable, and  mean  much;  sometimes,  otherwise.     I 


26  Fifty  Years. 

have  voted  with  the  party  to  which  my  father  be- 
longed. I  am  a  member  of  my  mother's  Church — 
and  I  hope  to  enter  the  heaven  where  she  waits 
my  coming.  I  heard  both  sides  before  I  was  old 
enough  to  read,  and  the  strength  of  my  partisan 
feeling  was  in  the  inverse  proportion  to  my  knowl- 
edge of  what  was  involved  in  the  controversies. 
As  soon  as  I  could  read  I  was  instructed  and  forti- 
fied in  my  Methodist  views  by  reading  the  old 
Christian  Advocate  and  Journal  of  New  York,  and 
the  Richmond  Christian  Advocate,  printed  at  the 
capital  of  old  Virginia.  The  elder  Bond  and  Dr. 
Leroy  M.  Lee,  the  one  in  New  York,  the  other  in 
Richmond,  were  thus  the  first  editors  who  im- 
parted to  me  their  ideas  and  their  spirit.  They 
seemed  to  feel  it  to  be  their  duty  to  smite  the 
Canaanites  that  were  still  in  the  land  and  to  con- 
tend for  the  faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints — 
that  is  to  say,  they  were  ready  to  push  their  ec- 
clesiastical organization  anywhere  and  everywhere 
in  our  new  country,  and  to  defend  against  all  op- 
posers  free  grace  and  freedom  of  the  will,  a  chance 
for  every  soul,  and  a  call  to  affirm  that  the  elect 
are  whosoever  will,  and  that  the  others  are  whoso- 
ever will  not  come  to  Christ.  As  these  points 
were  then  presented  to  my  youthful  mind,  it  did 


About  Editors  and  Editing.  27 

not  occur  to  me  as  possible  that  any  other  views 
of  Christianity  could  be  taken  except  through  the 
most  pitiable  stupidity  or  the  most  willful  per- 
versity. The  disputes  on  these  questions  which  I 
overheard  made  it  plain  that  the  disputants  of  op- 
posing views  regarded  our  side  as  equally  stupid 
or  perverse. 

Those  editors  of  that  earlier  time  had  a  vocab- 
ulary that  was  rich  in  uncomplimentary  adjectives, 
and  did  not  always  keep  within  the  limits  of  par- 
liamentary courtesy.  But  they  were  honest,  ear- 
nest men,  not  trimmers  nor  hairsplitters;  they  held 
that  a  thing  was  either  right  or  wrong,  and  they 
neither  asked  nor  gave  any  quarter  to  heresy.  Yet 
— bless  their  bigoted  souls! — they  were  the  kind- 
est of  neighbors,  and  interchanged  all  friendly 
social  offices,  their  families  intermarrying  freely. 
So  the  heresy  was  hated  and  denounced,  while 
the  heretic  was  loved  as  a  man  and  a  brother. 
Bitter  words  then  took  the  place  of  the  dungeon, 
the  pillory,  and  the  gibbet  in  settling  religious  dif- 
ferences; now  reason,  persuasion,  and  argument  are 
mostly  taking  the  place  of  bitter  words. 

They  were  picturesque  gladiators,  those  editors 
of  that  day  who  debated  on  holiness,  the  mode  of 
baptism,  the  apostolic  succession,  and  other  ques- 


28  Fifty  Years. 

tions  of  like  character.  Some  of  them  achieved 
national  reputations  for  the  genius  they  exhibited 
in  the  use  of  language  that  ignored  even  the  pre- 
tense of  courtesy  or  civility  and  yet  stopped  short 
of  downright  profanity  and  indecency.  No  names 
will  be  called  here.  But  this  question  will  be 
asked:  Why  is  it  that  editors  who  differ  in  their 
opinions  or  interests  allow  themselves  a  latitude 
in  this  matter  of  offensive  personalities  that  is 
claimed  nowhere  else  by  public  men?  This  is  a 
habit  that  still  lingers;  how  it  began  might  be 
an  inquiry  of  some  interest,  but  how  to  stop  it  at 
once  and  fully  is  a  question  better  worth  considera- 
tion. As  an  old  editor,  and  as  chaplain  of  the 
Tennessee  Press  Association,  let  me  speak  my  mind 
plainly  on  this  point:  Make  it  a  rule  that  all  per- 
sonalities be  excluded  from  journalism,  both  re- 
ligious and  secular.  Where  there  may  be  an  ex- 
ception called  for,  let  the  necessity  be  so  clear  that 
all  good  citizens  who  love  truth  and  justice  will 
approve.  During  my  term  of  service  as  editor  of 
the  Christian  Advocate  at  Nashville  I  had  occasion 
to  enforce  this  rule  in  dealing  with  two  of  my 
brethren,  both  of  whom  had  preceded  me  in  the 
editorship  of  that  paper — one  of  whom  was  Bishop 
McTyeire,  and  the  other  was  Dr.  McFerrin.    They 


About  Editors  and  Editing.  29 

were  both  mighty  men  in  the  Church,  and  no  two 
men  stood  higher  in  my  esteem.  Under  peculiar 
conditions  each  one  wished  me  to  give  place  in  the 
paper  to  a  communication  that  was  excluded  by 
the  rule  I  had  adopted.  Both  papers  were  bright 
and  strong;  that  of  McTyeire  bristled  with  sharp 
points  that  would  have  stung  to  the  quick  his 
vulnerable  adversary;  that  of  McFerrin  abounded 
in  those  sarcastic  sallies  that,  when  delivered  with 
his  peculiar  nasal  intonations,  were  so  irresistible 
with  a  popular  assemblage.  They  both  looked  sur- 
prised and  displeased  when  I  told  them  I  must 
decline  to  publish  their  communications;  both  left 
my  office  walking  flatfooted  and  holding  them- 
selves stiffly ;  both  came  back  in  a  few  days  without 
complaint;  both  knew  I  had  acted  rightly  in  the 
matter;  and  both  were,  if  possible,  warmer  in  their 
good  will  toward  me  than  before.  They  stood  by 
me  in  enforcing  this  good  rule  in  dealing  with 
others. 

Right  here  my  heart  prompts  a  grateful,  broth- 
erly word  in  remembrance  of  a  service  done 
me  by  Dr.  William  M.  Leftwich,  who  not  many 
months  ago  crossed  over  into  that  world  whither 
we  can  go  to  meet  our  friends,  but  whence  they 
cannot   return  to  us — if  matters  relating  to  the 


30  Fifty  Years. 

two  spheres  of  being  are  now  as  David  said  they 
were  when,  fresh  from  the  grave  of  his  dead  child, 
he  said:  "I  shall  go  to  him,  but  he  shall  not  return 
to  me."  (2  Samuel  xii.  23.)  When  I  was  dis- 
abled for  many  weeks  by  a  breakdown  from  over- 
work during  the  session  of  the  General  Confer- 
ence held  in  Nashville  in  1882,  without  fee  or 
reward  of  any  sort — except  the  blessing  that  always 
follows  such  deeds — Dr.  Leftwich  did  my  editorial 
work  from  week  to  week,  in  a  way  that  furnished 
one  of  the  many  evidences  of  the  marvelous  vitality 
and  versatility  of  that  many-sided  man,  who  could 
preach  doctrinal  sermons  of  unusual  breadth  and 
depth;  conduct  revival  services  of  indefinite  dura- 
tion, doing  all  the  preaching  and,  if  needful,  most 
of  the  singing  at  every  service;  write  for  the  print- 
ers with  rare  facility  and  felicity;  visit  the  sick  and 
the  well,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  like  a  true  pastor; 
and  push  the  temporal  interests  of  the  Church  like 
a  man  of  affairs  who  specialized  in  that  one  thing. 
It  was  a  strange  ending  of  the  busy  and  fruitful 
ministerial  life  of  this  strong  and  willing  worker 
that  he  should  go  to  Los  Angeles,  California,  that 
land  of  sunshine  and  salubriousness  and  beauty, 
only  in  a  little  while  to  sicken  and  die. 


MORE  ABOUT  THE  EDITORS 

(30 


More  About  Editors. 

How  to  do  it,  and  how  not  to  do  it — I  speak  of 
the  work  of  an  editor — will  be  further  considered 
in  this  chapter.  These  points  will  be  taken  in  in- 
verse order. 

I  got  emphatic  hints  as  to  how  an  editor's  work 
should  not  be  done  by  studying  the  cases  of  the 
men  who  had  failed  more  or  less  fully.  The  shore 
of  the  journalistic  sea,  if  you  will  allow  the  figure 
of  speech,  was  strewn  with  editorial  wrecks.  For 
every  failure  there  was  a  cause,  and  to  find  that 
cause  was  to  make  one  danger  less  for  a  new  navi- 
gator. I  am  speaking  of  religious  journalism; 
bear  this  in  mind.  The  men  that  failed  owed  their 
failures  to  the  operation  of  the  law  of  cause  and 
effect — a  law  which  rules  in  all  matters  in  this 
world  and  in  all  worlds. 

I  knew  of  one  brother  who  made  a  foredoomed 
and  speedy  failure  because  he  started  with  no 
capital  whatever:  he  had  no  money,  no  experience 
as  editor  or  publisher,  no  credit  with  men  of  busi- 
ness sense.  He  was  a  failure  from  the  start,  and 
he  and  everybody  else  soon  found  it  out.  He  ex- 
3  (33) 


34  Fifty  Years. 

pected  to  reap  what  he  had  not  sown:  the  unbend- 
ing law  of  cause  and  effect  was  too  strong  for  him. 
He  reaped  as  he  sowed — reaping  defeat  from  the 
seeds  of  silliness,  the  notion  that  he  might  get 
something  out  of  nothing.  I  knew  of  another 
brother  who  thought  he  could  make  a  weekly 
family  religious  newspaper  succeed  by  making  it 
the  vehicle  for  never-ending  serial  articles  on  the 
subject  of  baptism  by  water.  Week  after  week 
his  "demonstrations"  were  strung  out  in  the  col- 
umns of  his  paper,  filling  whole  pages,  and  weary- 
ing the  few  of  his  readers  that  tried  to  keep  him 
company,  and  repelling  the  great  body  of  his  de- 
nominational constituents,  to  whom  last  year's 
almanac  would  have  been  scarcely  less  interesting. 
He  was  a  mild,  well-meaning  monomaniac,  not  an 
editor.  I  knew  of  another — a  gifted  man,  and  a 
marvelous  preacher — who  tried  to  edit  a  weekly 
religious  newspaper  and  at  the  same  time  do  the 
work  of  a  presiding  elder  requiring  his  service  in 
different  places  every  Sabbath  day  in  a  district  ex- 
tending over  a  wide  region  of  country.  Of  course 
he  had  to  fail:  the  paper  could  not  be  self-editing;  it 
was  a  hasty  hodgepodge  without  form  and  mostly 
void  of  interest.  The  money  put  into  it  was  sunk, 
the  paper  stopped,  and  was  soon  forgotten  by 


More  About  Editors.  35 

everybody  save  some  of  its  creditors  who  were  left 
to  mourn  their  credulity,  and  were  thenceforward 
wiser  and  poorer  men.  I  knew  of  another  who 
had  a  passion  for  controversy  that  amounted  to 
lunacy;  and  unfortunately  he  lacked  all  sense  of 
proportion:  over  a  disputed  historical  date  he 
would  almost  go  into  spasms,  and  he  so  habitually 
filled  his  columns  with  disputations  about  trifles 
that  sensible  and  sober-minded  people  spent  their 
time  and  their  money  for  other  and  better  reading. 
So  he  failed,  and  this  might  have  been  his  editorial 
epitaph:  Died  of  trifling.  I  knew  of  another — a 
very  good  man,  who  was  a  fine  scholar  and  a  great 
worker — whom  much  learning  had  made  mad  with 
the  mild  and  amiable  madness  of  pedantry.  It 
was  a  failing  that  leaned  to  virtue's  side,  but  it 
caused  a  failure;  he  could  not  turn  a  newspaper 
into  a  theological  seminary.  He  did  a  good  work 
for  a  few,  but  the  average  reader  knew  he  could 
not  grow  spiritually  fat  on  Greek  and  Hebrew  ety- 
mology and  the  like.  I  knew  of  another — a  man 
of  much  vigor  and  generous  impulses,  who  at  his 
best  was  estimable  and  likable — who  started  out 
as  a  reformer,  and  ended  as  a  common  scold — per- 
haps I  should  say  he  ended  as  an  iconoclast;  that 
is  a  bigger  word,  and  has  a  politer  sound.     His 


36  Fifty  Years. 

main  object  of  attack  was  his  own  Church,  strik- 
ing right  and  left  at  all  within  reach,  making  doubt- 
less many  good  points,  but  becoming  so  indiscrimi- 
nate as  to  be  practically  pointless  and  powerless 
for  good.  A  few  of  his  brethren,  fiery  souls  and 
full  of  fight,  stood  by  him  to  the  last;  but  the  most 
of  them  preferred  a  milder  and  more  varied  diet, 
and  went  elsewhere  to  find  it.  This  editor  also  left 
the  tripod  with  larger  experience  and  a  lighter 
purse  than  when  he  took  his  seat  thereon.  And  so 
on,  and  so  on;  I  had  plenty  of  object  lessons  as 
warnings  as  to  where  lay  the  dangers  that  it  would 
be  wise  for  an  editor  to  shun — how  not  to  do  it. 

A  few  touches  descriptive  of  the  editors  who 
taught  us  how  to  do  it  may  be  in  order  next.  They 
were  not  in  all  cases  better  men  than  those  who 
failed,  but  they  were  better  editors,  success  being 
the  test.  (And  it  may  not  be  amiss  in  this  place 
to  say,  in  parenthesis,  that  while  contempora- 
neous judgment  of  men  is  usually  just,  the  value  of 
a  man's  work  is  not  always  to  be  measured  by  im- 
mediate visible  results,  and  the  balance  sheet  is  not 
struck  every  time  an  ecclesiastical  body  votes  for 
officers — editors  and  others.) 

Among  those  editors  who  taught  us  how  to  do 
an  editor's  work  was  one  who  knew  what  to  say, 


More  About  Editors.  37 

and  always  said  it  well;  and  also  knew  what  not  to 
say,  and  left  it  unsaid.  He  did  not  waste  his 
strength  or  the  time  and  patience  of  his  readers  on 
abstractions  or  irrelevancies.  He  belonged  to  the 
living  world,  and  kept  in  the  middle  of  its  currents 
of  thought  and  activity.  He  saw  all  that  was  go- 
ing on,  and  he  made  his  readers  see  through  his 
spectacles.  He  proved  himself  to  be  a  leader  in 
thinking,  and  his  influence  and  following  steadily 
increased.  That  he  was  a  great  editor  nobody  now 
doubts,  though  of  course  he  did  not  escape  some 
friction  while  he  was  in  the  work:  nobody  does  es- 
cape wholly  who  is  not  wholly  worthless  in  such  a 
place. 

There  was  another  editor  who  was  efficient  and 
popular  in  a  narrower  way.  He  was  ardent  and 
tactful  as  a  denominational  champion,  and  so 
achieved  denominational  success.  He  hit  every 
hostile  head  in  sight,  and  was  quick  to  see  one. 
He  never  put  off  the  war  paint  entirely,  seeming 
to  feel  that  he  had  a  call  to  smite  the  Hittites  hip 
and  thigh  — meaning  by  the  Hittites  all  assailants 
of  Methodist  doctrine  in  general  and  all  assailants 
of  the  historical  record  of  his  own  branch  of  Meth- 
odism in  particular.  He  had  at  ready  command 
tke  phrases  that  caught  the  popular  ear,  and  soon 


38  Fifty  Years. 

proved  that  he  was  one  of  the  zealots  who  had  a 
zeal  according  to  knowledge.  He  did  a  good 
work  for  those  warlike  times,  and  received  the 
honors  due  to  a  champion  who  met  all  comers 
against  his  Church  and  held  his  ground.  In  more 
peaceful  times  there  was  less  need  for  such  service, 
and  he  was  not  so  heroic  and  conspicuous  a  figure 
in  the  Church;  but  his  name  abides  as  a  synonymn 
of  intelligent  partisanship  and  unflinching  courage. 
He  lived  in  warlike  times,  and  his  people  cheered 
him  on  in  the  battle  and  crowned  him  as  a  good 
soldier  who  fought  a  good  fight  and  kept  the  faith 
once  delivered  to  the  saints. 

There  was  another  editor  who  was  so  classic  in 
style  and  so  sweet  in  tone  that  to  read  after  him 
was  to  get  training  in  true  culture  and  growth  in 
grace  at  the  same  time.  To  say  that  he  was  a 
Christian  scholar  would  be  to  make  a  common- 
place remark;  but  if  we  stop  to  think  of  what  the 
words  mean  in  all  their  depth  and  breadth,  what 
more  could  be  said  of  him?  The  fragrance  of  his 
life  still  lingers  among  us. 

There  was  another  editor  whose  paper  was  the 
exponent  of  a  faith  so  strong  and  the  channel  for 
a  spirituality  so  fervent  and  unfailing  that  it  edi- 
fied the  Church,  and  like  a  south  wind  in  spring- 


More  About  Editors.  39 

time  caused  every  seed  of  truth  to  germinate  in 
the  minds  of  its  readers  and  every  holy  aspiration 
to  bloom  in  fuller  spiritual  beauty — if  this  mixed 
figure  may  be  tolerated.  This  editor  was  not 
ranked  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  in  the  jour- 
nalistic heavens;  he  was  not  talked  of  as  much  as 
some  noisier  and  shallower  men;  but  he  achieved 
a  sort  of  success  that  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  will 
recognize  and  reward  when  he  comes  to  reckon 
with  the  laborers. 

There  was  another  editor  who  was  not  always 
equally  philosophical  and  pointed  in  his  editorials, 
nor  always  equally  enterprising  in  the  collection 
of  news  suited  to  a  religious  newspaper;  but  it  was 
a  very  rare  occurrence  that  the  dish  he  set  before 
his  readers  was  not  seasoned  with  the  attic  salt 
of  a  wit  so  bright  and  original  that  its  very  victims 
felt  like  joining  in  the  merriment. 

One  more  editor  I  will  name — that  of  a  little 
four-paged  paper  that  was  as  sweet  and  as  juicy 
as  a  Georgia  peach  that  ripened  in  the  middle  of 
the  season  for  peaches  on  the  southernmost  branch 
of  the  tree.  To  read  it  was  to  partake  of  angels' 
food.  His  editorial  song  was  pitched  to  the  tune 
of  that  of  the  multitude  of  the  heavenly  host  at 
Bethlehem  when  the  Prince  of  Peace  was  born 


40  Fifty  Years. 

— and  its  echoes  are  still  sounding  in  the  hearts 
of  his  select  audience. 

But  enough  under  this  head — only  remarking 
that  though  no  names  are  called,  if  these  touches 
are  true  to  life,  the  reader  will  place  them  where 
they  belong. 

My  helpers — I  had  many,  many  helpers  in  my 
work  as  editor  from  the  start;  for  it  did  seem  as 
if  a  million  and  a  half  of  Methodists  had  conspired 
to  compel  me  to  succeed.  But  there  were  two  men 
who  were  my  helpers  in  a  special  sense,  appointed 
thereto  officially  by  the  Church — Dr.  John  W. 
Boswell  and  Dr.  (now  Bishop)  Warren  A.  Candler. 
The  former — Dr.  Boswell — was  a  helper  indeed. 
He  worked  with  the  precision  and  regularity  of 
clockwork.  His  sound  judgment  was  unfailing, 
or  as  nearly  so  as  that  of  any  man  I  ever  knew. 
He  went  for  the  right  things,  and  moved  in  a 
straight  line  invariably.  No  question  of  difference 
ever  rose  between  us.  He  was  a  man  to  be  trusted 
and  to  be  leaned  on — for  he  loved  his  Lord  and 
his  Church,  and  had  an  uncommonly  large  equip- 
ment of  consecrated  common  sense.  My  other 
official  editorial  helper — Bishop  Warren  A.  Cand- 
ler— has  truly  said  that  during  the  entire  two  years 
that  we  worked  together,  our  offices  opening  into 


More  About  Editors.  41 

each  other,  the  door  was  never  once  closed  between 
us.  This  was  not  because  we  always  saw  things 
alike  at  the  first  glance,  but  because  we  were  work- 
ing to  the  same  ends,  and  had  no  secrets  to  guard 
or  personal  aims  to  promote.  I  am  sure  that  in 
saying  this  I  speak  truly  for  both  of  us.  He  was 
a  helper  who  could  help,  having  the  large  and  ready 
perception  that  enabled  him  to  see  all  that  was 
taking  place  in  the  world  in  which  we  lived  and 
moved  and  did  our  work  as  editors,  and  with  it  a 
driving  power  that  was  tremendous.  If  he  had 
gone  radically  wrong,  he  would  have  made  a  smash 
that  would  have  been  felt  far  and  wide.  But  he 
loved  the  Church  and  its  Head  with  a  true  heart, 
and  the  inherited  traditions  of  the  grand  old 
Georgia  fathers  made  him  conservative,  while  the 
fervent  spirituality  which  they  typed  seemed  to 
him  the  normal  atmosphere  of  the  New  Testament 
Church.  If  in  any  case  he  overcharged  a  gun,  he 
was  ready  to  withhold  his  fire.  If  at  any  time  he 
thought  he  saw  that  his  senior  needed  a  word  of 
exhortation,  he  gave  it  freely.  We  were  blessed 
in  our  work,  and  happy  in  our  fellowship.  My 
dear  old  Junior — that  is  the  form  in  which  I  ad- 
dress him  when  I  write  to  him  now — if  our  earthly 
lives  are  not  safer  and  sunnier,  and  our  heavenly 


42  Fifty  Years. 

entrance  more  abundant,  because  of  our  associa- 
tion, one  of  the  sacred  hopes  that  gild  my  sun- 
set sky  will  be  disappointed. 

The  old  questions  will  close  this  chapter:  Has 
the  special  providence  of  God  any  part  in  the 
calling  of  any  Christian,  clerical  or  lay,  to  any 
particular  sphere  of  service?  Is  positive  failure 
in  any  work  for  the  Church  a  sign  of  mistake  as 
to  a  call  thereto?  I  am  inclined  to  give  an  affirm- 
ative answer  to  both  questions.  If  this  answer  be 
the  right  one,  there  is  here  a  momentous  matter 
for  you,  kindly  reader. 


WITH  AND  ABOUT  THE  DOCTORS 

(43) 


With  and  About  the  Doctors. 

When  the  holy  apostle  Paul  and  the  beloved 
physician  Luke  met,  they  fell  in  love  with  each 
other  at  first  sight,  and  never  afterwards  parted 
for  any  length  of  time.  It  is  thought  that  Luke's 
first  visit  was  purely  professional,  and  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  Paul's  thorn  in  the  flesh.  As 
to  what  peculiar  ailment  that  was,  opinions  differ 
widely.  I  will  venture  only  a  negative  view,  to  wit: 
it  was  not  what  the  moderns  call  nervous  pros- 
tration. Had  he  been  buffeted  by  that  sort  of 
trouble,  he  would  not  have  used  the  singular  num- 
ber in  describing  it:  he  would  have  spoken  of  the 
"thorns"  that  were  as  numerous  as  were  nerves. 
Luke  the  physician  was  not  made  the  instrument 
of  healing  Paul  the  apostle — that  was  not  accord- 
ing to  the  will  of  God,  who  knew  that  his  patient 
needed  more  grace  rather  that  more  bodily 
strength.  But  who  can  tell  how  much  was  the 
indebtedness  of  the  suffering  apostle  to  his  beloved 
physician?  We  may  take  it  for  granted  that  he 
set  his  mind  at  rest  by  letting  him  understand 
what  not  to  expect  in  the  way  of  relief:  a  man  of 

(45) 


46  Fifty  Years. 

true  heroic  mold  like  Paul  braces  himself  to  en- 
dure the  inevitable.  In  this  case  it  was  a  happy 
circumstance  that  the  divine  will  as  communicated 
in  a  heavenly  vision  agreed  with  the  prognosis  and 
advice  of  a  doctor  who  believed  in  God  and  in  the 
laws  of  nature  which  are  simply  the  expression  of 
God's  will  in  this  material  sphere.  At  least  we 
may  be  sure  that  Dr.  Luke  protected  his  friend 
from  the  impositions  of  quacks. 

There  is  a  pathos  that  touches  the  heart  in  the 
words  of  Paul  written  after  the  apostasy  of  Demas 
and  the  departure  of  his  other  companions:  ''Only 
Luke  is  with  me."  Luke  himself  had  in  the  mean- 
time become  an  apostle,  St.  Paul  being  the  chief 
human  instrumentality  in  bringing  about  this 
gracious  result.  These  friendships,  in  which  there 
is  a  happy  coincidence  of  temperamental  affinities 
and  complemental  gifts,  make  some  of  the  bright- 
est passages  in  Bible  biography,  and  have  run  as 
threads  of  gold  through  very  many  of  the  Chris- 
tian lives  that  have  made  this  world,  in  spite  of 
its  sin  and  pain  and  heart-break,  bloom  at  some 
times  and  places  in  heavenly  beauty  and  blessed- 
ness. That  flower  of  paradise,  holy  friendship, 
sheds  its  fragrance,  and  that  fruit  of  the  indwell- 
ing Spirit,  holy  love,  comes  to  its  perfectness,  in 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  47 

numberless  hearts  and  homes  that  thus  get  fore- 
gleams  of  the  glory  and  foretastes  of  the  joys  that 
await  them  "up  yonder,"  where  our  heavenly 
Father  has  prepared  for  them  better  things  than 
they  can  ask  or  think. 

Softly,  softly!  This  is  enough  for  me  to  say 
on  this  subject  now.  If,  through  the  unfailing 
mercies  of  God,  I  shall  gain  an  entrance  into  that 
world  into  which  no  trouble  shall  come,  and  from 
which  no  loved  one  shall  depart,  I  cherish  the  be- 
lief that  my  Christian  friendships  shall  be  no  small 
part  of  the  inspiration  of  my  song  of  gratitude  for 
the  past  and  a  chief  ingredient  of  the  felicity  of  the 
unending  future.  The  best  that  is  in  our  thought 
is  not  equal  to  the  best  that  God  hath  prepared  for 
us.  Now  are  we  the  sons  of  God,  and  therefore 
heirs;  and  it  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be. 
Am  I  digressing?  Some  of  my  readers  will  ex- 
cuse me  for  so  doing,  because  they  have  the  same 
point  of  view  as  they  look  backward  and  forward. 

Among  the  doctors  I  have  known,  the  image 
of  one  rises  before  my  mental  vision  persistently 
— that  of  a  gifted  man  who  had  a  genius  for  med- 
icine and  a  passion  for  whisky.  He  died  before  his 
time  from  the  violation  of  the  laws  of  health  which 
no  man  understood  more  fully.     Poor  victim  of  a 


48  Fifty  Years. 

fatal  appetite,  he  had  almost  every  virtue  except 
self-control,  and  was  his  own  worst  enemy.     His 
name  is  withheld  from  this  printed  page — a  name 
that  would  be  recognized  as  belonging  to  a  family 
connection  noted  for  its  civic  virtues  and  social 
graces  in  one  of  our  older  Southern  communities. 
It  does  seem  strange  to  many  sensible  people  that 
so  many  physicians  who  know  so  well  the  awful 
effects  of  drunkenness  nevertheless  persist  in  this 
fatal  indulgence.     Two  or  three  causes  may  be  sug- 
gested here.     In  some  cases  the  cause  is  Heredity. 
In  many  cases  it  is  Habit.     This  is  not  the  place  to 
preach;  but  the  words  of  the  Old  Book  come  in: 
"Wine  is  a  mocker,  strong  drink  is  raging:  whoso 
is  deceived  thereby  is  not  wise."     Science  is  a 
good  thing  in  itself;  but  godless  science  is  as  weak 
and  silly  as  sin  in  a  fight  like  this.     Another  cause 
of  the  prevalence  of  the  drink  habit  among  doctors 
may  be  found  in  the  fact  of  their  irregular  habits 
in  eating  and  sleeping.     Called  up  and  out  at  all 
hours  of  the  night  as  well  as  the  day,  with  nerves 
disordered  by  loss  of  sleep  and  digestion  impaired 
by  irregularity  of  meals,  they  are  tempted  to  seek 
stimulation  from  alcoholic  drinks — and,  like  others 
who  know  less  and  do  the  same,  pay  compound 
interest  on  the  debt  thus  contracted  in  the  reac- 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  49 

tion  that  always  follows  such  stimulation.  "I 
know,  I  know  what  a  fool  I  am  in  this  matter  of 
drunkenness,  but  it  is  too  late,  too  late  for  me  to 
get  free,"  said  a  great-hearted,  gifted  physician, 
a  princely  man  in  personal  appearance,  whose  pro- 
fessional benefactions  reached  all  sorts  of  people 
— the  poor  and  friendless,  the  stranger  in  the  land 
no  less  than  those  more  favored.  He  was  a  fre- 
quent attendant  upon  church  services,  and  there 
was  no  limit  to  his  kindness  to  me  as  his  pastor 
and  friend.  One  of  his  horses — a  long-legged, 
sinewy  sorrel — was  placed  at  my  disposal  when- 
ever I  wanted  to  ride;  and  for  the  little  woman  in 
the  parsonage  and  her  child  his  behavior  was 
fatherly  as  well  as  professionally  kind  and  skillful. 
God  was  good  to  him  at  the  last.  He  laid  hold 
of  the  hope  set  before  him  in  the  gospel  with  a 
firmer  grasp,  and  he  was  held  steady  amid  the 
waves  and  billows  that  beat  upon  him,  and  his  sky 
was  clear  when  he  was  launched  upon  the  Mystic 
Sea.  Dear  old  friend,  will  you  bear  the  scars  of 
the  battle  when  I  see  you  again?  No,  thanks  to 
the  good  God,  the  body  sown  in  weakness  is 
raised  in  power.  The  risen  Jesus  hath  promised 
that  it  shall  be  fashioned  like  unto  his  own.  It 
doth  not  yet  appear  what  that  body  shall  be — but 
4 


SO  Fifty  Years. 

we  shall  be  satisfied  when  we  awake  in  that  like- 
ness. 

The  broad,  benignant  face  of  a  San  Francisco 
doctor  here  comes  up  before  my  mind — a  guile- 
less, unworldly  man,  who  was  a  homeopath  in  med- 
ical practice  and  a  Swedenborgian  in  religious 
belief.  He  did  not  do  much  harm  to  his  patients, 
if  we  were  disposed  to  deny  that  he  did  them  much 
good:  his  doses  were  so  small  and  so  few.  His 
presence  was  so  gracious  that  his  entrance  into 
a  room  was  like  California  sunshine.  He  had  no 
doubts  on  religious  subjects,  and  he  never  tired 
of  talking  of  them.  Jesus  Christ,  the  Divine  Man, 
was  more  real  to  him  than  the  head  of  his  political 
party  is  to  the  hottest  partisan  during  election 
times.  The  Bible — magnified  by  him  as  The 
Word — was  to  him  clear  in  its  meanings  when  ex- 
pounded by  Emanuel  Swedenborg,  whose  inter- 
pretations came  direct  from  the  Author.  To  him 
the  Holy  Book  blazed  with  light,  and  the  world 
around  him  bloomed  in  beauty  because  he  read  in 
that  Book  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus  and  saw  in 
nature  the  reflection  of  the  Divine  Image.  If 
ever  I  met  an  unworldly  man,  he  was  one.  His 
presence  at  a  religious  service  was  a  felt  addition 
to  the  spirit  of  worship,  though  it  might  dilute  in 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  51 

some  degree  the  aggregated  orthodoxy  of  the  con- 
gregation. Long  years  ago  he  passed  over  into 
that  spiritual  sphere  that  was  so  real  to  him  while 
he  was  here  in  the  flesh.  He  knows  more  now 
than  he  did  while  with  us  in  the  body.  The  nat- 
uralizing of  such  a  man  for  heavenly  citizenship 
would  not  be  a  lengthy  process.  His  name  seems 
to  be  framed  before  me,  encircled  with  the  words 
in  shining  letters,  "A  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in 
God." 

A  striking  contrast  to  my  sunny-souled  old  Swe- 
denborgian  dispenser  of  tiny  pellets  for  the  sick 
comes  before  my  mind  just  here  in  the  person  of 
a  doctor  of  the  old-time  pattern.  He  was  of  the 
old  school  in  medicine,  dispensing  calomel,  quinine, 
and  castor  oil  in  full  doses,  and  holding  to  repent- 
ance, faith,  a  new  heart  and  a  new  life  as  expounded 
by  John  Wesley,  with  a  pretty  strong  persuasion 
that  sanctification  was  a  distinct  experience  pos- 
sible to  all  believers  and  actually  attained  by  some. 
I  was  his  pastor.  I  scarcely  ever  knew  him  to  miss 
a  prayer  meeting  or  a  class  meeting.  He  was 
gifted  in  prayer,  and  stirred  up  his  gift  by  constant 
exercise.  He  could  be  depended  on  to  raise  the 
tune  whenever  called  on  to  do  so.  In  him  were 
conjoined   the  tenderest   heart   and   the   sternest 


5a  Fifty  Years. 

dogmatism — a  man  who  refused  all  toleration  of 
error  and  evil,  and  yet  would  have  divided  his  last 
dollar  with  an  erring  fellow-man,  or  gotten  up  at 
midnight  to  do  an  act  of  kindness  for  the  worst 
of  evildoers.  He  followed  up  his  medical  pre- 
scriptions with  prayer  for  his  patients;  if  any  of 
them  got  well,  he  gave  God  thanks  therefor;  when 
any  of  them  died,  he  seemed  to  think  it  was  be- 
cause their  time  had  come  in  the  order  of  a  divine 
government  in  which  free  agency  and  foreknowl- 
edged  were  harmonized  in  a  way  he  could  neither 
doubt  nor  comprehend. 

In  the  mines  among  my  friends  was  a  noted 
surgeon — almost  giant  in  size  and  strength — who 
had  such  a  passion  for  "operating"  that  it  was  said 
in  a  spirit  of  good-humored  exaggeration  that  it 
was  dangerous  to  have  him  around  if  you  had  even 
stuck  a  splinter  in  your  finger,  for  off  must  go  the 
arm.  "Where  have  you  been,  Doctor?"  I  asked 
him  one  day  as  he  came  riding  homeward  after  a 
professional  visit.  "I  have  just  been  up  the  creek 
a  few  miles  to  whack  off  a  man's  leg,"  he  answered, 
emphasizing  the  "whack"  with  unmistakable  gusto. 
But  he  was  a  true  master  of  his  profession.  Those 
that  joked  about  his  overfondness  for  capital 
operations  were  the  very   ones  to  send  for  him 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  53 

when  serious  surgery  was  needed.  He  was  a  sur- 
geon, and  that  only.  He  thought  and  talked  and 
delighted  in  nothing  else.  So  far  as  I  could  see, 
his  idea  of  a  heaven  would  be  a  realm  where  there 
would  be  unlimited  facilities  for  surgical  study  and 
practice — especially  the  practice.  He  had  a  steady 
hand,  and  he  bore  the  pain  of  his  patients  with  a 
fortitude  that  he  thought  becoming  to  a  man  who 
put  science  above  sentiment  in  his  work.  I  am 
thankful  that  I  never  had  need  for  his  surgical 
service. 

Doctors  are  notoriously  sensitive  and  punctil- 
ious in  their  dealing  with  one  another.  The  odium 
theologicum  is  not  worse  than  the  odium  medicum. 
That  is  to  say,  doctors  of  medicine  and  doctors 
of  divinity  have  about  the  same  human  nature, 
which  is  always  a  poor  weak  thing  on  its  under 
side.  Bigotry  in  the  pulpit  is  a  Twin  Ugliness  to 
Proscriptiveness  in  the  medical  professor's  chair. 
Magnanimity  is  a  flower  of  heavenly  growth  that 
is  beautiful  wherever  it  is  seen.  As  health  is  more 
precious  than  money,  so  professional  differences 
among  doctors  are  more  bitter  than  competition 
among  business  men.  It  has  been  my  fortune 
more  than  once  to  number  among  my  friends  in 
the  same  city  two  physicians  who  were  not  on 


54  Fifty  Years. 

speaking  terms  with  each  other.  Two  of  these 
medical  belligerents  had  a  habit  of  favoring  me 
with  their  opinions  of  each  other,  respectively. 
They  were  both  high-toned,  high-mettled  men. 
All  my  efforts  to  bring  them  into  friendly  relations 
with  each  other  failed.  They  exhausted  their 
whole  vocabulary  of  vituperative  adjectives  in  the 
expression  of  their  contempt  for  each  other.  The 
cause  of  their  alienation  at  first  was  a  difference 
of  opinion  in  the  diagnosis  of'  a  patient  who  died — 
each  giving  the  other  the  credit  for  the  fatal  result, 
which  was  most  likely  inevitable.  That  is  the 
apple  of  the  eye  of  a  doctor  of  medicine,  his  most 
sensitive  spot — the  imputation  of  a  wrong  diag- 
nosis in  a  dangerous  case.  A  doctor  of  divinity  is 
sometimes  just  as  silly  in  resenting  a  doctrinal  dif- 
ference concerning  an  important  point  in  biblical 
interpretation.  Many  of  both  vocations  live  long 
enough  to  become  more  or  less  ashamed  of  this 
weakness  in  this  life;  in  the  life  to  come  some  of 
them  will  be  almost  incredulous  as  to  the  pettiness 
of  which  they  were  capable  here  below. 

During  my  pastorate  in  a  California  town  of 
classic  history,  and  which  is  a  floral  paradise,  I  had 
a  medical  friend  who  was  a  confessed  materialist 
— not  of  the  coarse  and  blatant  type,  but  a  sad- 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  55 

hearted,  hungry-souled  man,  who  was  asking  the 
old  question,  "If  a  man  die,  shall  he  live  again?" 
He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  services,  and 
always  a  respectful  if  not  a  devout  hearer  of  such 
sermons  as  I  was  able  to  preach.  He  seemed 
pleased  when  from  time  to  time  other  members  of 
his  family  made  a  religious  profession  and  became 
members  of  the  Church.  We  had  many  rides  and 
many  talks  together  on  the  great  question  of  Re- 
ligion; and  I  am  sure  that  these  talks  did  me  good 
at  least,  for  in  trying  to  answer  his  inquiries  that 
were  truly  searching  and  subtle,  I  was  stirred  up 
to  think  and  read  more  earnestly  and  widely  on 
the  line  of  Christian  evidences.  His  heart  was 
nearer  right  than  his  head.  The  New  Testament 
Christ  had  for  him  an  ineffable  attraction.  One 
day  when  we  were  riding  on  a  favorite  drive,  under 
the  blue  Californian  sky,  he  asked  me  what  I 
thought  of  the  retention  of  personal  individuality 
and  the  recognition  of  one  another  in  heaven.  Of 
course — yes,  of  course — I  replied  that  in  that 
sphere  we  would  know  and  love  not  less  but  more 
than  on  earth,  and  therefore  we  might  expect  to 
recognize  each  other  and  enjoy  a  fellowship  with  all 
congenial  spirits  that  will  be  unbroken  and  eternal. 
"The  thought  has  more  than  once  occurred  to  me," 


56  Fifty  Years. 

he  said,  "that  if  there  is  a  heaven,  and  if  I  should 
reach  the  place,  I  would  like  to  find  Sir  Waiter 
Scott  and  thank  him  for  the  help  he  gave  me  by 
his  books  in  the  weary  and  troubled  seasons  of  my 
life." 

A  slight  digression  will  be  pardoned  here.  Two 
days  ago  a  clerical  friend  visited  me  in  my  room, 
and  we  talked  to  each  other  and  prayed  together. 
The  interview  was  sacred;  toward  its  close  he  asked 
me,  "What  do  you  think  will  be  your  first  thought 
when  you  enter  heaven?  My  first  feeling,"  he 
continued,  "will  be  that  of  thankfulness  that  I  will 
thenceforward  never  be  liable  to  sin  again."  He 
has  been  an  invalid  with  shattered  nerves  for  years, 
with  a  consequent  tendency  toward  severe  self- 
judgment  and  mental  depression.  To  me  the  ques- 
tion was  puzzling — My  first  thought  in  heaven? 
Perhaps  the  very  first  will  be  thankfulness  mixed 
with  surprise  that  I  am  really  there.  The  next? — 
and  the  next? — and  the  next?  It  was  overwhelm- 
ing! It  was  crowding  heaven  into  a  few  moments. 
There  they  come — those  that  slept  in  Jesus  that  I 
had  known  on  earth;  some  it  may  be  who  had  been 
helped  thither  by  me  in  some  degree;  the  mother 
who  prayed  for  me  and  loved  me  until  death; 
friends  who  had  preceded  me  and  looked  for  my 


With  and  About  the  Doctors.  57 

coming  because  we  had  walked  together  part  of 
the  way  and  had  taken  the  same  vows  and  were 
led  by  the  same  Spirit.  But  one  vision  more  than 
all  the  rest  took  possession  of  my  soul — the  Bea- 
tific Vision,  the  view  of  Jesus  face  to  face,  seeing 
him  as  he  is.  To  see  Him  as  He  is — that  means 
that  we  shall  see  clearly.  As  He  is — a  present 
tense  that  stretches  on  and  on  forever — Infinite 
Duration  for  the  study  of  Infinite  Perfection. 


WITH  AND  ABOUT  THE  LAWYERS. 

(59) 


With  and  About  the  Lawyers. 

The  New  Testament  has  little  or  nothing  to  say 
about  lawyers  in  the  secular  sense  of  the  word. 
In  fact,  if  the  professed  disciples  of  Christ  lived  up 
to  the  letter  and  spirit  of  his  plain  teachings,  and 
the  teaching  of  St.  Paul  in  the  first  seven  verses  of 
his  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  litigation 
among  Christians  would  be  an  obsolete  thing,  and 
lawyers  would  be  a  class  whose  functions  would  dif- 
fer from  what  they  are  now  so  widely  that  they 
would  scarcely  know  themselves  by  the  same  name. 
Arbitration  is  presented  by  St.  Paul  as  the  proper 
mode  of  settling  disputes  of  all  sorts,  property 
rights  of  course  included.  And  when  nations 
nominally  Christian  become  really  Christian,  war 
will  be  regarded  as  an  extinct  barbarism.  This 
will  come  to  pass  as  certainly  as  God  hath  prom- 
ised it.  This  year  of  our  Lord  1903  has  brought 
the  dawn  of  this  better  time.  The  creation  of  the 
Hague  Arbitration  Commission  by  the  great  pow- 
ers of  Christendom  marks  a  great  epoch  in  this 
world's  history,  and  challenges  even  the  dullest 
soul  to  believe  that  the  time  is  coming  when  the 

(61) 


62  Fifty  Years. 

nations  shall  learn  war  no  more.  The  very  thought 
of  this  as  a  possibility  is  thrilling.  Yes,  Arbitra- 
tion has  come  to  stay.  The  very  destructiveness  of 
modern  implements  of  warfare  will  help  to  hasten 
the  end  of  war:  the  wrath  of  man  shall  thus  be 
made  to  praise  the  Lord.  This  great  change  has 
come  almost  unnoticed:  our  busy  writers  and 
readers  have  been  taken  up  with  smaller  matters 
that  touched  them  more  directly.  A  Bible  text 
comes  to  my  mind:  "The  kingdom  of  God  cometh 
not  with  observation."  The  signs  of  the  times 
are  not  discerned  in  their  real  significance  and  rela- 
tive importance  by  the  very  ones  who  are  proudest 
of  their  fancied  wisdom  and  are  readiest  to  en- 
lighten their  generation  with  their  interpretations 
and  predictions.  From  apostolic  times  even  until 
now  this  folly  has  been  going  on.  The  one  thing 
needful  for  each  generation  and  for  each  individual 
is  to  be  ready,  remembering  that  the  kingdom  of 
heaven  must  be  within  us  as  preparatory  to  en- 
trance into  the  everlasting  kingdom  in  its  aggre- 
gated constituents  and  final  glory.  And  at  last 
the  revelation  of  the  Son  of  man  will  come  with 
a  suddenness  that  will  be  as  startling  as  a  lightning 
flash  from  a  cloudless  sky. 

This  mention  of  Arbitration  has  led  me  into 


With  and  About  the  Lawyers.  63 

what  may  seem  to  be  a  considerable  digression. 
But  what  is  written  is  written.  In  the  New  Testa- 
ment Scriptures  there  is  but  scant  mention  of  law- 
yers. When  Paul  wrote  to  Titus,  "Bring  Zenas 
the  lawyer,"  it  is  thought  by  those  who  have  good 
understanding  in  these  matters  that  he  referred  to 
a  doctor  of  laws,  rather  than  to  a  doctor  of  divinity. 
That  is  the  last  glimpse  we  have  of  Zenas.  He  was 
probably  consulted  about  some  matters  of  ritual 
and  such  like  pertaining  to  the  relations  of  the  old 
and  the  new  dispensations.  Paul  had  to  answer 
the  inquiries  of  many  persons,  and  to  instruct  new 
disciples  who  had  everything  to  learn.  This  lesson 
of  the  Master  was  enforced:  "Render  unto  Caesar 
the  things  that  are  Caesar's,  and  unto  God  the 
things  that  are  God's."  Christian  rulers,  Chris- 
tian jurists,  and  Christian  lawyers  took  the  places 
of  the  heathen  rulers,  jurists,  and  lawyers  in  due 
time.  The  names  of  the  best  of  these  may  be  re- 
corded among  those  that  the  Christian  world  has 
recognized  as  the  salt  of  the  earth  and  the  lights 
of  the  world.  The  names  of  the  worst  of  them — 
apostates,  deceivers,  wolves  in  sheep's  clothing — 
will  recur  to  the  thoughtful  reader  of  these  chapters 
as  illustrative  of  the  fact  that  in  the  false  professor 
of  Christianity  may  be  found  the  worst  type  of 


64  Fifty  Years. 

human  wickedness,  as  it  superadds  hypocrisy  to 
all  other  vileness  and  gives  to  sin  its  crowning 
infamy. 

These  were  the  ideals  of  the  legal  profession  that 
I  first  met  in  life.  The  able  and  upright  jurist  was 
the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  to  be  admired  and 
venerated  in  human  character.  The  tricky  law- 
yer was  the  embodiment  of  all  that  was  lowest  and 
vilest.  The  unjust  judge  is  regarded  as  a  mon- 
strosity of  bygone  times.  The  colossal  figures  of 
Marshall,  Taney,  and  their  compeers  and  succes- 
sors, stand  majestic  and  flawless  before  the  admir- 
ing gaze  of  this  generation.  The  names  of  the 
great  advocates  are  household  words  everywhere 
in  our  land.  Let  a  question  come  in  here.  Some- 
times it  happens  that  a  professedly  Christian  law- 
yer has  a  case  like  this  to  come  to  him:  A  man 
accused  of  crime  asks  him  to  undertake  his  de- 
fense; looking  into  the  case,  he  finds  that  his  client 
is  guilty  as  charged  in  the  indictment,  but  by  skill- 
ful perversion  or  suppression  of  its  true  history 
he  might  secure  acquittal.  What  ought  a  Chris- 
tian lawyer  to  do  in  such  a  case?  This  proposition 
seems  clear  to  me:  A  lawyer  has  no  more  right  to 
use  deceit  and  falsehood  in  his  profession  than  a 
tradesman  in  his  buying  and  selling.     Litigation 


With  and  About  the  Lawyers.  65 

will  be  scarce  when  lying  ceases.  If  all  lawyers 
were  truth-loving  and  truth-telling — well,  I  will 
not  finish  that  sentence;  but  I  will  say  that  if  it 
were  known  from  this  hour  that  no  wrongdoer 
would  be  able  to  find  an  apologist  or  defender  or 
rescuer  in  the  person  of  a  lawyer,  crime  on  all  lines 
involving  secrecy  and  deceit  would  be  at  once 
abated  to  a  degree  that  would  astonish  even  the 
shrewd  barristers  themselves  who  have  not  given 
special  thought  to  this  matter.  'The  wisdom 
that  is  from  above  is  .  .  .  without  hypocrisy." 
Lawyers  are  not  excepted  from  this  statement. 
I  have  observed  that  this  matter  is  to  a  large  ex- 
tent self-regulative.  Like  seeks  like.  As  a  rule 
the  ethical  status  of  a  lawyer  is  indicated  by  that 
of  his  clients.  The  tricky  lawbreaker  employs  a 
tricky  lawyer  to  save  him  from  the  punishment  he 
deserves.  In  most  of  our  cities  there  is  a  class  of 
men  called  lawyers  who  make  a  science  of  perjury 
in  behalf  of  criminals.  These  men  manufacture 
alibis  and  straw  bail  to  order.  On  the  other  hand, 
I  call  to  mind  just  here  a  law  firm  in  San  Francisco 
whose  members,  three  in  number,  were  so  well 
known  for  their  consistent  Christian  character  that 
it  eventually  came  to  pass  that  the  intrusting  to 
them  the  management  of  a  suit  at  law  gave  strong 
5 


66  Fifty  Years. 

presumption  that  their  client  had  a  righteous 
cause.  And  when  the  senior  member  of  the  firm 
was  elevated  to  the  bench,  it  was  amusing  to  see 
how  he  substantially  constituted  himself  a  chancery 
court,  deciding  every  case  that  came  before  him 
on  its  equities  when  they  were  plainly  discerned, 
all  technical  quibbles  and  ingenious  devices  to  the 
contrary  notwithstanding.  Indignant  protests 
were  made  by  some  of  the  disappointed  barristers, 
but  the  benignant  face  of  the  old  judge  never  lost 
its  serenity,  nor  did  he  give  any  sign  of  a  disposi- 
tion to  change  his  purpose  to  make  his  court  a 
court  of  justice  in  the  truest,  strictest  sense  of 
the  word.  Litigants  who  concocted  fraudulent 
schemes  carried  them  elsewhere. 

In  one  of  the  mining  towns  of  California  I  knew 
a  noted  and  strangely  successful  criminal  lawyer 
who  was  a  psychological  puzzle  to  everybody  and 
a  sort  of  byword  to  his  professional  brethren.  He 
was  almost  uniformly  successful  in  jury  trials. 
What  made  him  so,  it  would  be  hard  to  guess  even 
now.  His  pleadings  were  remarkable  for  their 
prolixity,  vehemence,  and  lack  of  logical  coherence 
and  unity.  Fixing  his  glittering  black  eyes  upon 
the  "gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  he  would  hold  their 
gaze  as  it  were  by  a  sort  of  fascination,  while  he 


With  and  About  the  Lawyers.  67 

literally  howled  in  what  seemed  to  be  endless  itera- 
tion the  most  extravagant  declamation,  with  mixed 
figures,  volcanic  rhetoric,  and  violent  gesticula- 
tion. To  a  listener  who  had  a  little  leisure  it  was 
an  amusing  performance.  But  the  fated  jury  had 
to  listen  through  it  all;  and  it  was  curious  to  see 
how  they  would  gradually  yield  to  the  influence  of 
this  extraordinary  pleading,  their  under  jaws  re- 
laxing as  a  conquered  expression  spread  over  their 
features — and,  behold,  they  were  ready  to  render 
a  verdict  in  favor  of  his  client.  Was  it  hypnotism? 
A  little  episode  came  to  my  knowledge  in  the 
same  town  that  illustrated  those  early  times  and 
gives  us  a  touch  of  the  human  nature  that  shows 
itself  among  all  sorts  of  people.  An  illiterate  man, 
of  jovial  disposition,  of  general  popularity,  with 
strong  prejudices,  was  in  some  way  elected  to  a 
judgeship.  Toward  one  of  the  lawyers  of  the 
place  he  had  an  inveterate  dislike;  and  he  invaria- 
bly ruled  against  him.  On  one  occasion  his  honor 
made  a  ruling  so  flagrantly  unfair  and  absurd  that 
the  lawyer,  losing  all  patience,  gathered  up  his 
papers  and  left  the  court  room,  saying,  "I  have 
never  been  able  to  get  justice  in  this  court!" 
"No,"  said  the  judge,  "you  never  shall" — using  an 
expletive  that  I  prefer  not  to  print. 


68  Fifty  Years. 

My  mind  reverts  to  other  jurists  whose  Christian 
character  was  so  beautifully  transparent,  whose 
presence  was  so  reverend,  and  whose  atmosphere 
was  so  devout,  that  any  trifling  with  the  solemnity 
of  an  oath,  or  any  manifestation  of  undue  levity  or 
laxity  of  principle,  seemed  almost  as  much  out  of 
place  in  the  courts  where  they  presided  as  in  a 
church  itself.  I  have  known  of  some  judges  who 
opened  their  sittings  with  prayer  to  the  Allwise 
God  for  guidance  in  their  decisions  and  for  his 
blessing  upon  all  their  official  work.  This  was  of 
course  only  practicable  in  communities  in  which 
there  was  more  of  Christian  unity  and  strength  of 
Christian  sentiment  than  is  common.  The  names 
of  some  of  these  jurists  almost  flow  from  my  pen 
point. 

Candor  suggests  the  mention  here  of  another 
lawyer  who  was  an  avowed  skeptic  as  to  the  Chris- 
tian religion,  who  in  most  particulars  did  seem  to 
exemplify  the  loftiest  ethics  and  to  practice  the 
most  graceful  courtesies  that  belong  to  the  Chris- 
tian gentleman.  He  was  never  known  to  use  the 
name  of  God  lightly,  but  always  spoke  of  him  as  in 
a  class  alone  He  was  as  a  father  to  the  younger 
members  of  the  bar,  and  on  occasion  his  magna- 
nimity reached  those  heights  where  that  consum- 


With  and  About  the  Lawyers.  69 

mate  flower  of  manhood,  true  chivalry,  bloomed  in 
its  superbest  beauty.  I  always  grudged  him  to 
the  opposition.  He  is  still  living  at  this  writing, 
and  at  this  moment  I  feel  toward  him  (if  I  may 
make  the  comparison)  as  the  Master  felt  toward 
the  young  man  whom  he  looked  upon  and  loved, 
and  to  whom  he  said,  "One  thing  thou  lackest." 

In  the  same  city  I  knew  another  lawyer  scarcely 
less  gifted,  and  even  more  versatile — a  man  who 
when  on  the  bench  made  more  than  a  State  reputa- 
tion as  a  jurist  learned,  upright,  and  fearless;  who 
when  addressing  a  jury  discerned  with  the  instinct 
of  genius  the  salient  points  of  the  legal  battle,  and 
touched  the  chords  of  human  nature  with  a  humor 
that  was  spontaneous  and  contagious,  a  pathos 
that  brought  the  tears  to  strong  men's  eyes;  whose 
homely  English  style  went  straight  to  the  common 
mind,  now  and  then  bringing  in  a  quotation  from 
the  Bible  as  a  clincher  to  some  logical  nail  he  was 
driving  home.  At  one  time  he  was  an  attendant 
upon  a  weekly  class  meeting  I  conducted.  It  was 
a  delight  to  have  such  a  man  in  such  a  service. 
He  seemed  to  illustrate  happily  the  saying  of  Jesus, 
that  to  inherit  the  kingdom  of  heaven  men  must 
be  converted  and  become  as  little  children:  the  in- 
genious lawyer  was  also  the  ingenuous  disciple  of 


70  Fifty  Years. 

the  Christ.  If  I  have  drawn  a  true  picture  of  this 
lawyer,  there  is  no  need  that  I  should  put  a  label 
on  it  for  some  who  will  read  this  chapter — which 
I  will  close  with  the  declaration  of  my  belief  that 
he  is  one  of  many  lawyers  of  this  type,  who  are 
wise  with  the  wisdom  that  is  learned  from  the 
study  of  books  and  the  study  of  human  nature  in 
their  actual  contact  with  the  world,  and  are  at  the 
same  time  wiser  in  the  higher  wisdom  learned  at 
the  feet  of  the  Master. 

There  may  be  some  hard  things  said  in  this 
chapter  on  lawyers,  which  was  written  while  a  cold 
wind  was  making  us  shiver  one  winter  day  in  Nash- 
ville. But  they  are  about  three-thirds  true,  and 
are  permitted  to  remain. 


THE  BISHOPS. 

(7') 


The  Bishops. 

My  opinions  as  to  the  scriptural  authority  for 
the  order  of  bishops,  and  my  feeling  toward  them 
as  actual  persons  pictured  in  ecclesiastical  history, 
were  much  divided  from  the  time  I  first  began  to 
read  and  think  and  feel.  When  I  read  of  the  do- 
ings and  sayings  of  such  men  as  Bonner  and  Laud, 
and  the  rest  of  that  altitudinous  set,  I  felt  for  the 
time  an  aversion  to  all  of  them.  And  when,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  read  the  hymns  of  Heber  and  the  ser- 
mons of  Phillips  Brooks,  I  fell  in  love  with  them  all. 
Just  so  it  was  that  as  I  came  to  know  more  of  all 
sorts  of  bishops,  I  fell  in  love  with  some  and  fell 
out  with  others.  I  never  could  become  excited 
over  the  contention  so  long  kept  up,  and  often  so 
bitter  in  spirit,  as  to  the  validity  of  the  order  and 
the  priority  of  the  title  claimed  by  this  or  that  re- 
ligious body.  I  would  rather  be  able  to  write  such 
a  hymn  as  Heber's,  beginning,  "Holy,  holy,  holy, 
Lord  God  Almighty" — we  might  call  it  his  hymn 
of  adoration  of  the  Triune  God — than  to  exchange 
ecclesiastical  pedigrees  with  all  the  pontiffs  from 
Caiaphas  to  the  present  incumbent  at  Canterbury 

(73) 


74  Fifty  Years. 

or  Constantinople.  I  would  rather  be  able  to 
preach  like  Thomas  Chalmers,  George  Whitefield, 
or  Charles  Spurgeon,  than  to  parade  titles  enough 
to  exhaust  all  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  I  would 
rather  be  God's  instrument  in  doing  a  tithe  of  the 
work  done  by  John  Wesley  for  the  world  than  to 
sit  in  all  the  chief  places  in  all  the  synagogues  of 
all  the  successors  of  the  scribes  and  priests  who 
when  our  Lord  was  here  on  the  earth  had  such  a 
poor  opinion  of  him  and  thought  so  highly  of  them- 
selves. (Can  any  candid  reader  of  ecclesiastical 
history  doubt  that  these  last  mentioned  have  in- 
deed had  a  constant  succession,  a  succession  of  pre- 
tenders whose  pretensions  have  been  in  the  inverse 
ratio  to  their  good  works?)  As  I  liked  some  of 
the  bishops  I  read  of  in  books  more  than  others, 
so  it  has  been  with  those  that  I  have  seen  at  closer 
range.  Elsewhere  in  my  writings  I  have  spoken 
of  "the  old  panel."  When  I  headed  this  chapter 
"With  the  Bishops,"  of  course  I  had  in  my  mind 
those  of  my  own  denomination  of  the  one  Church 
of  Christ.  Not  that  I  used  the  definite  article  in 
the  sense  that  we  are  the  only  and  only  lawful 
claimant  of  the  title.  The  thought  in  my  mind 
was,  changing  my  purpose  elsewhere  announced, 
I  would  speak  a  word  concerning  my  colleagues  of 


The  Bishops.  75 

the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  South.  Of  the 
wisdom  or  good  taste  of  this  utterance  each  reader 
will  judge  for  himself. 

Taking  them  according  to  seniority,  I  begin 
with  Bishop  John  C.  Keener.  "Yes,  he  is  rightly 
named,  a  Keener  indeed,"  said  my  old  California 
friend  Lowry,  sketched  elsewhere.  Lowry^  had 
known  him  as  editor  and  preacher,  and  recognized 
in  him  an  able  and  fearless  defender  of  the  faith 
once  delivered  to  the  saints.  Keener  he  thought 
was  well  named:  his  blade  was  sharp  and  his  thrust 
direct.  He  did  his  own  thinking,  and  thought 
much.  He  was  so  sure  of  his  own  love  of  truth 
and  honest  purpose  that  he  found  it  hard  to  doubt 
the  soundness  of  his  judgment  in  any  matter  that 
touched  closely  either  his  head  or  heart.  We  may 
be  sure  that  consciously  he  knew  no  man  after  the 
flesh,  though  it  is  certain  that  he  had  very  positive 
convictions  both  as  to  men  and  measures.  Once 
I  had  occasion  to  differ  with  him  in  a  matter  of 
official  administration.  It  was  a  matter  of  slight 
importance,  but  as  the  correspondence  had  ended 
rather  abruptly,  I  had  a  slight  apprehension  that 
he  was  hurt  or  displeased  with  me.  The  next  time 
we  met  in  person  was  at  the  session  of  the  General 
Conference  in  Baltimore  in  1808.     We  met  on  the 


76  Fifty  Years. 

steps  leading  to  the  platform,  he  going  up  as  I 
went  down — and  the  moment  he  recognized  me, 
he  threw  his  arm  around  me  tenderly,  and  with 
deep  emotion  thanked  me  for  a  paper  on  the  Res- 
urrection which  I  had  published  in  one  of  our 
Church  periodicals.  Since  that  day  both  of  us  have 
had  fresh  cause  to  regard  this  tremendous  fact  of 
the  Resurrection  with  a  deeper  joy  than  we  had 
known  before.  The  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  apos- 
tle Paul's  First  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians  comes 
before  my  mind,  and  I  find  a  glow  in  my  heart,  as 
I  think  of  our  senior  Bishop  Keener. 

Bishop  Alpheus  W.  Wilson  is  first,  and  most  of 
all,  a  preacher.  Away  back  yonder — no  matter 
how  many  years  ago — I  began  to  see  and  hear 
allusions  to  "Alph  Wilson,"  after  the  fashion  of 
our  people  in  giving  pet  names  to  soldiers,  politi- 
cians, and  preachers  of  rising  reputation.  He  was 
of  good  preaching  stock  of  the  old  "Maryland  line" 
of  Methodism,  so  to  speak,  in  a  true  apostolic 
succession,  as  I  look  at  such  things.  When  he  was 
put  into  connectional  office  by  his  election  as  Mis- 
sionary Secretary,  everybody  took  it  as  a  matter 
of  course.  He  quickly  got  the  ear  and  heart  of  the 
Church.  He  subsoiled  it  with  missionary  princi- 
ples and  facts.     He  plowed  deep  and  sowed  good 


The  Bishops.  77 

seed  which  is  bearing  rich  harvests  unto  this  day. 
He  is  not  a  diplomat,  but  something  greater  and 
better — an  ecclesiastical  statesman  with  a  mission- 
ary heart  that  takes  in  all  the  world,  and  a  brain  to 
match. 

Bishop  Eugene  R.  Hendrix  has  made  good  use 
of  an  unusually  good  chance  in  life — if  that  word 
may  be  allowed  here.  He  had  at  the  start  a  re- 
ligious parentage,  a  robust  physique,  and  more 
money  than  most  men  with  which  to  begin  life.  I 
have  known  other  young  men  who  had  all  these, 
and  yet  failed  utterly  because  they  lacked  the  one 
thing  needful — that  is,  conformity  to  the  will  of 
God  as  taught  in  his  Word  and  indicated  in  his 
providential  leadings.  In  his  early  youth  he  be- 
gan to  follow  Jesus,  and  has  given  his  whole  life  to 
the  work  given  him  to  do.  He  has  been  an  inces- 
sant student,  and  as  a  laborer  has  put  forth  his 
whole  strength.  He  has  served  the  Church  as  a 
pastor,  presiding  elder,  president  of  one  of  its  col- 
leges, and  an  active  member  of  its  several  connec- 
tional  boards.  He  is  a  logical  thinker  who  tries  to 
make  sure  of  his  facts,  and  spares  no  pains  needed 
therefor.  When  the  Master  called  him  to  work  in 
his  vineyard,  he  called  one  who  has  proved  himself 
a  laborer  indeed.     Beginning  promptly  at  an  early 


78  Fifty  Years. 

hour,  he  is  still  at  it,  doing  more  and  better  work 
all  the  time.  His  vision  is  clearer  and  wider,  his 
insight  deeper,  his  heart  tenderer — so  say  the 
hearers  of  his  sermons  wherever  he  preaches, 
whether  in  city,  village,  or  country.  He  is  an  ex- 
ample of  what  the  Master  meant  when  he  said, 
''Study  to  show  thyself  a  workman  that  needeth 
not  to  be  ashamed."  And  when  he  talks  of 
"Skilled  Labor  for  the  Master,"  he  speaks  that 
which  he  knows,  and  furnishes  in  his  own  life  a  fine 
illustration  of  the  subject  discussed. 

Bishop  Charles  B.  Galloway's  gift  is  eloquence — ■ 
a  gift  that,  with  the  help  of  all  sorts  of  people,  he 
has  stirred  up  from  his  sophomore  days  until  now. 
He  has  been  a  student  when  not  in  the  pulpit  or 
on  the  platform,  or  on  his  way  thereto.  But  whoso 
follows  in  print  the  round  of  his  engagements  for 
one  year  will  see  that  to  be  a  true  successor  of 
Asbury — who  studied  his  Bible  and  made  his  ser- 
mons on  horseback — he  would  have  to  think  and 
read  and  write  while  whirling  over  the  country  on 
the  steam-cars  or  across  the  ocean  on  the  steam- 
ships of  this  later  time.  And  this  is  just  what  is 
done  by  all  bishops  that  are  on  the  effective  list 
who  are  not  fossilized  or  fossilizing  visibly.  Bish- 
op Galloway  has  that  one  strongest  evidence  that 


The  Bishops.  79 

he  has  been  called  to  preach,  namely:  he  can  preach. 
His  entire  physique — his  voice,  his  eye,  his  mag- 
netism— pardon  the  word,  for  it  will  come  in,  that 
something  that  the  true  orator  must  possess,  but 
which  no  one  can  describe  and  no  human  skill  im- 
part— are  those  of  the  orator  born.  He,  too, 
started  early,  and  up  to  this  date  has  fulfilled  the 
early  promise  he  gave  of  a  career  of  great  useful- 
ness and  eminence  as  a  minister  of  the  gospel.  In 
presenting  to  him  a  medal  which  he  had  won  in 
an  oratorical  contest  at  the  University  of  Missis- 
sippi, a  noted  politician  said  to  him  in  a  vein  of 
pleasantry:  "I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  have  chosen 
the  Christian  ministry  as  your  calling;  for  had  you 
gone  into  politics,  you  would  have  taken  every- 
thing in  sight  and  left  nothing  for  the  rest  of  us." 
The  young  man  who  gives  up  the  pulpit  for  the 
hustings — disobeying  a  heavenly  vision  to  engage 
in  a  scramble  for  the  things  that  perish — does  not 
always  get  what  he  bargains  for.  He  makes  a  bad 
trade  even  when  he  does  grasp  the  bauble  that 
dazzled  his  eye.  Bishop  Galloway's  epitaph  can- 
not be  written  now.  I  speak  of  him  as  I  know  him. 
Hard  work  has  not  broken  his  fine  physical  consti- 
tution: popularity  has  not  inflated  his  soul  with 
pride;  the  exercise  of  power  and  influence  has  not 


80  Fifty  Years. 

hardened  him.  But  time  and  grace  have  mellowed 
his  spirit,  and  grief  in  its  sacredness  has  drawn  him 
into  a  closer  fellowship  with  the  Man  of  Sorrows, 
and  tuned  his  preaching  into  subtler  and  fuller 
harmony  with  the  wailing  of  earth's  sufferers  under 
the  reign  of  sin  and  death. 

Bishop  John  C.  Granbery  is  an  all-round  man — 
big  everywhere,  but  nowhere  knotty  or  gnarled. 
He  has  both  size  and  symmetry.  Paul  described 
him  in  part  when  he  described  Barnabas — "a  good 
man,  full  of  faith  and  the  Holy  Ghost."  As  was 
said  by  another  of  our  colleagues,  when  I  found 
myself  differing  from  Bishop  Granbery  in  a  matter 
involving  a  question  of  Christian  ethics,  I  was 
moved  at  once  to  review  most  carefully  the  grounds 
of  my  judgment.  He  cherishes  the  chivalrous  tra- 
ditions of  the  Old  South,  which  had  a  real  exist- 
ence, not  confined  wholly  to  the  turgid  rhetoric 
of  stump  speeches  and  party  platforms.  He  has 
that  which  goes  higher  and  farther — the  mind  that 
was  in  Christ  Jesus.  We  met  for  the  first  time  at 
the  session  of  the  General  Conference  held  in  the 
city  of  New  Orleans  in  1866.  Our  fellowship  has 
been  unbroken — yea,  undisturbed — ever  since. 
While  he  was  a  teacher  in  Vanderbilt  University, 
and  I  was  editing  the  connectional  organ  at  Nash- 


The  Bishops.  81 

ville,  we  had  what  we  called  our  "Saturday  hour" 
together — from  eleven  o'clock  to  twelve  on  that 
day  was  sacredly  set  apart  for  personal  communion. 
Those  conversations  are  registered  in  my  memory. 
They  took  a  wide  range — theology,  Church  affairs, 
new  books,  and  matters  of  interest  in  current  litera- 
ture, and  at  last  carried  by  a  mutual  impulsion  into 
an  exchange  of  Christian  experience  that  tuned 
my  soul  for  the  further  touches  I  needed  from  the 
Lord  my  God.  We  were  born  the  same  year — 
in  1829;  we  asked  and  were  granted  release  from 
full  official  labors  at  the  same  time — in  1902. 
Which  will  first  be  called  to  the  rest  that  remains 
I  know  not.  My  heart  sends  him  a  greeting  in 
this  chapter.  In  the  depths  of  my  soul  there  is 
a  joyful  expectation  that  in  due  time  our  fellowship 
shall  be  renewed.  Even  as  a  possibility,  the  wonder 
and  blessedness  of  this  expectation  would  fill  the 
evening  sky  with  glory  indescribable. 

Bishop  Robert  K.  Hargrove  came  of  an  Ala- 
bama family  that  was  thrifty,  clean,  and  honest. 
His  special  gifts  were  accuracy  and  punctuality. 
If  he  had  an  appointment  to  meet  you  at  ten 
o'clock,  you  had  no  need  to  fear  that  you  would 
not  see  him  until  five  minutes  after  the  set  time  for 
him  to  be  there.  In  recording  business  transacted 
6 


82  Fifty  Years. 

he  put  down  exactly  what  was  done,  not  allowing 
his  imagination  or  any  temptation  in  the  way  of 
rhetorical  flourish  to  color  the  plain  facts.  I  have 
differed  from  him  in  opinion,  but  I  would  not  fear 
to  risk  my  life  on  the  conviction  that  he  always 
tried  to  speak  truly  and  to  act  justly.  He  never 
shirked  a  duty  because  it  required  hard  work,  he 
never  went  into  the  pulpit  unprepared;  he  never 
quit  working  at  any  problem  until  he  got  a  solu- 
tion. The  Church  never  had  a  more  faithful  serv- 
ant. With  steady  steps  and  loving  heart  he  has 
followed  his  Master,  who  in  that  day  will  say  unto 
him,  "Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servant." 
Good  and  faithful — these  two  words  make  the 
golden  key  that  unlocks  the  gate  of  glory. 

Bishop  Atticus  G.  Haygood  was  a  Georgian  all 
over,  all  through,  always — the  product  of  his  times 
and  his  teachers.  He  had  the  intensity  of  the  fiery 
evangelists  who  kept  Georgia  in  a  blaze  for  an  en- 
tire generation.  He  had  his  share  of  the  declama- 
tory eloquence  that  caught  the  ear  and  charmed 
the  heart  of  the  nation  in  such  men  as  Pierce, 
Toombs,  Stephens,  and  Grady.  He  had  that 
humorous  vein  that  is  found  in  nearly  all  Georgians 
in  high  places  and  low  alike.  And  he  had  besides 
all  these  that  one  thing  that  differentiates  genius 


The  Bishops.  83 

from  talent,  and  makes  a  pathfinder  rather  than 
one  who  jogs  along  in  the  beaten  tracks.  He  was 
original  as  a  writer — either  saying  what  was  new, 
or  saying  in  a  new  way  what  had  been  said  before. 
His  writings  touched  the  consciences  of  men  and 
opened  the  fountains  of  their  liberality.  If  he  ever 
did  an  unbrotherly  act,  or  spoke  an  envious  word 
of  a  fellow-laborer,  I  never  heard  of  it.  His  cour- 
age was  not  of  the  kind  that  waited  to  see  which 
way  the  majority  was  going,  and  then  rushed  to 
the  front  vociferating  its  shibboleth  loudest  of  all. 
In  a  special  sense  he  was  my  colleague:  we  knelt 
together  at  the  chancel  at  our  ordination  in  St. 
Louis  in  1890.  As  editors  we  had  worked  to- 
gether for  some  measures,  and  against  others. 
The  last  time  I  saw  him  was  at  an  Annual  Confer- 
ence in  Arkansas,where  we  sat  together  on  the  plat- 
form while  Laura  Haygood.  his  sister,  was  making 
her  pathetic  appeal  for  China.  It  was  evident 
even  then  that  he  was  failing  in  strength.  Through 
great  tribulation  they  have  since  passed  into  the 
city  of  God.  I  always  think  of  them  together — 
and  if  I  meet  one  of  them  up  there,  I  shall  expect 
to  see  the  other  in  that  land  of  which  it  is  said  it 
shall  know  no  pain.  It  makes  me  dizzy  with  joy 
to  think  what  this  may  mean.     The  height  and 


84  Fifty  Years. 

depth  of  it  who  can  measure?  O  departed  brothers 
and  sisters  who  knew  so  much  pain  here,  not  one  of 
you  has  come  back  to  tell  us  what  you  see  and 
feel  up  there.  Our  hearts  ask  why  this  is  so.  The 
cry  of  the  father  at  the  burial  of  his  dead  child — 
recorded  in  the  nineteenth  chapter  of  the  Second 
Book  of  Samuel — has  the  pathos  of  a  heartbreak 
and  the  inexorability  of  an  interdict  that  may  not 
be  disobeyed:  "He  cannot  return  to  me;  but  I  can 
go  to  him."  If  they  could  come  back  at  will,  the 
two  worlds  might  become  so  mixed  that  we  might 
lose  the  blessedness  of  this  probation  where  we 
walk  by  faith;  while  they  could  give  only  imperfect 
glimpses  of  the  glory  that  can  be  revealed  only  to 
the  glorified.  If  it  were  possible  for  them,  and 
best  for  us,  our  loved  ones  would  come  back  to  us. 
As  I  write  these  words  this  morning  to  my  inner 
ear  comes  floating  across  the  years  the  echo  of  an 
old  song  sung  long  ago  by  lips  that  are  now  sing- 
ing the  new  song  up  there — 

They  shall  meet  again  who  have  loved. 

Bishop  William  Wallace  Duncan's  "given"  name 
is  not  the  only  thing  about  him  that  has  a  martial 
ring.  Whether  Covenanter  or  Catholic,  Royalist 
or  Republican,  whatever  else  might  be  lacking  in 
a  Wallace  or  a  Duncan,  he  would  not  be  lacking  in 


The  Bishops.  85 

a  disposition   to  stand  up  for  his  convictions  or 
rights.     Whoever  has  met  Bishop  Duncan  in  any 
sort  of  combat  would  discover,  first,  that  this  mili- 
tant episkopos  of  our  new  century  had  started  to 
light  to  a  finish;  second,  that  he  seemed  rather  to 
enjoy  it;  and  third,  that  when  the  white  flag  of 
peace  is  floating  over  the  battlefield  of  polemics, 
his  guns  are  silent.     The  only  condition  he  made 
when  he  agreed  to  hold  the  Memphis  Conference 
in  my  stead,  because  I  was  disabled  by  sickness,  was 
that  I  would  say  nothing  about  it.     As  a  wit,  at 
times  his  shafts  fly  thick  and  fast;  but  his  arrows 
are  not  barbed,  and  there  is  no  venom  in  his  sting. 
He   does   seemingly   love   to   sting   an   apathetic 
brother  into  wakefulness  and  activity.     He  keeps 
too  busy  in  the  work  of  the  Church  to  make  many 
guesses  at  the  meaning  of  unfulfilled  and  unex- 
plained   prophecies,    or    to    unravel    the    tangled 
threads  left  to  this  generation  by  the  doctrinal  dis- 
putants of  the  past.     His  dogmatism  does  not  lack 
emphasis.     He  seems  to  think  that  it  is  his  mission 
to  sow  the  good  seed  of  the  kingdom  of  God,  be- 
lieving that  the  Lord  of  the  harvest  will  see  that  it 
shall  prosper  in  the  thing  whereto  he  hath  sent  it. 
He  is  not  one  of  those  who  lag  in  the  rear,  giving 
their  criticism  before  the  battle  and  their  advice 


86  Fifty  Years. 

afterwards.  Our  Church  on  the  Pacific  coast 
needs  a  militant  leader  of  its  forces.  No  one  can 
possibly  understand  the  conditions  over  there  from 
hearsay.  Bishop  Duncan  is  studying  them  directly 
in  person.  His  opinions  when  matured  will  have 
much  value  in  the  estimation  of  the  Church.  A 
man  like  this  will  bear  acquaintance.  The  longer 
I  have  known  him  the  more  fully  I  have  trusted 
him.  A  difference  of  opinion  is  tolerated  by  men 
who  as  a  matter  of  course  stand  by  their  own  con- 
victions. 

Bishop  Joseph  S.  Key  is  in  the  true  succession, 
being  the  son  of  Caleb  W.  Key,  one  of  the  fathers 
of  the  old  Georgia  Conference.  He  (the  father) 
was  one  of  its  presiding  elders  in  1854  when  I  be- 
came a  member  of  that  body.  I  remember  him  as 
a  strongly  built  man,  with  a  face  sagacious  and  se- 
rene— the  sort  of  man  who  when  he  spoke  knew 
what  he  wanted  to  say,  and  when  he  moved  knew 
where  he  wanted  to  go — a  safe,  true  man  whose 
value  answered  to  his  mint-mark.  We  (Bishop 
Key  and  myself)  have  kept  in  sight  of  each  other 
since  we  first  met  in  1854.  All  the  time  he  has 
been  in  the  itinerant  field,  while  much  of  my  work 
has  been  on  the  tripod.  His  orthodoxy  is  as 
straight  as  a  gun  barrel,  his  good  sense  as  uniform 


The  Bishops.  87 

as  sunshine  in  summer  time  in  California.  If  I  were 
looking  for  a  man  to  lead  a  charge  against  an  in- 
trenched foe  with  superior  numbers,  I  might  not 
choose  him  first  of  all;  but  I  have  known  noiser 
men  to  flinch  under  such  a  test,  while  he  did  less 
boasting  and  no  running.  His  role  is  not  the  per- 
formance of  imposing  evolutions  in  the  sight  of  an 
enemy,  and  for  the  admiration  of  hero  worshipers 
in  our  own  ranks;  but  in  this  sturdy,  well-poised 
man  the  Church  has  a  Key  that  will  fit  the  wards  of 
all  parts  of  our  complex  Church  machinery,  and 
has  helped  to  open  many  a  door  that  seemed  to  be 
closed  against  the  ecclesiastical  experts.  As  a 
preacher  his  chief  desire  seems  to  be  to  say  what 
God  has  commanded,  believing  that  he  will  see  to 
its  accomplishment  of  that  whereunto  it  was  sent. 
If  I  were  a  heresy-hunter,  I  would  never  think  it 
worth  while  to  get  on  the  trail  of  Bishop  Key. 
We,  too,  were  born  in  the  same  year.  His  physical 
strength  has  outlasted  mine.  If  I  get  the  start  of 
him,  and  enter  first  that  world  of  spirits  which  now 
seems  so  near  to  me  at  times,  if  he  does  not  show 
his  brotherly  face  up  there  in  due  time — pshaw! 
that  "if"  is  only  a  disjunctive  used  here  as  a  form 
of  speech — he  will  come.  Both  of  us  have  now  the 
forward  look.     "Forgetting  the   things  that  are 


88  Fifty  Years. 

behind,  and  reaching  forth  to  those  that  are  before, 
we  press  toward  the  mark  for  the  prize  of  our  high 
calling  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus." 

Bishop  Warren  A.  Candler  is  rather  below  the 
average  in  stature  of  Georgians,  a  stocky  man  with 
a  chest  like  a  bison,  a  big  head  firmly  set  upon 
his  broad  shoulders,  the  front  part  indicating  ex- 
traordinary perceptive  faculties  with  coordinating 
powers  to  match,  his  back  head  showing,  if  there 
be  anything  in  craniology,  immense  propelling 
force.  I  think  I  know  him.  He  was  with  me  two 
years  as  assistant  editor  of  the  Christian  Advocate 
at  Nashville,  and  the  door  was  never  shut  between 
us.  We  usually  thought  alike  on  questions  that 
were  worth  thinking  about;  we  felt  the  same  love 
for  the  Church.  He  is  a  spiritual  child  of  Georgia 
Methodism.  He  is  apt  to  "speak  out  in  meeting," 
holding  that  a  light  hidden  under  a  bushel  is  use- 
less. He  is  aggressive  in  his  thinking  and  plan- 
ning, holding  to  that  old  notion  so  confidently  held 
by  the  Georgia  fathers  that  the  gospel  of  Jesus 
Christ  is  for  all  the  world,  and  that  its  Author  will 
see  to  it  that  it  shall  be  given  to  all  the  world;  the 
only  condition  being  this,  that  they  who  carry  it 
shall  preach  the  whole  truth  as  the  truth  is  in 
Jesus.     As  a  preacher  Bishop  Candler  is  incisive, 


The  Bishops.  89 

practical,  faithful,  with  enough  of  pungency  to 
flavor  his  logic  and  theology,  giving  his  hearers 
touches  of  humor  or  satire  that  make  one  smile 
and  another  wince.  Wherever  he  goes  he  stirs 
the  stagnant  pools  of  ecclesiastical  torpidity. 
If  you  wish  to  see  Obstinacy  Inveterate,  try 
to  force  him  to  do  something  against  his  will. 
If  you  wish  to  see  a  soul  dissolved  in  tender- 
ness, make  a  legitimate  appeal  to  the  tender 
side  of  his  nature.  Judging  by  the  amount  of 
money  he  has  collected  for  Church  enterprises 
— and  especially  for  Emory  College — some  per- 
sons might  be  led  to  think  that  he  loves  that 
sort  of  work.  In  his  case,  as  in  others,  when  a 
man  shows  aptitude  and  willingness  for  service 
in  that  line,  he  is  kept  at  it  in  this  our  day.  In 
some  instances  the  gospel  commission  might  be 
parodied  so  as  to  read:  "Go  into  all  the  world  and 
take  collections."  No  disparagement  of  him  is 
intended  when  I  say  that  there  is  no  telling  at  any 
time  what  he  will  do  next.  He  is  an  impulsive 
man  who  takes  things  as  they  come — and  things 
keep  coming  to  a  live  man  in  a  world  like  this.  As 
a  writer  he  has  the  power  of  strong  conviction  and 
rare  command  of  language.  He  is  too  red-hot  in 
his  zeal  to  toy  much  with  mere  rhetoric  for  its 


90  Fifty  Years. 

own  sake,  but  when  he  does  employ  it  he  uses  the 
genuine  artiele.  There  is  substance  as  well  as 
glitter  in  his  figures  of  speech.  I  lis  editorial  ex- 
perience makes  him  a  better  writer  and  a  safer 
critic  than  he  could  have  been  without  it:  he  knows 
better  what  not  to  say,  and  lias  a  broader  charity 
for  those  who  say  what  he  does  not  like.  It 
would  take  a  man  of  his  type  a  long  time  to  get 
reconciled  to  the  idea  of  substituting  the  gospel  of 
a  present,  free,  and  full  salvation  by  such  showers 
of  agnostic  snow  and  sleet  as  are  falling  from  so 
many  pulpits  in  our  day,  whose  occupants  seem  to 
covet  a  reputation  for  learning,  and  to  think  that 
doubt  is  the  sign  of  wisdom.  lie  has  seen  too 
many  genuine  revivals  of  religion,  and  felt  too 
much  of  their  power,  to  be  troubled  with  unbelief. 
More  and  more  he  seems  disposed  to  do  as  St.  Paul 
determined  to  do-  that  is,  to  know  nothing  among 
men  but  Jesus  Christ,  and  him  crucified.  When 
I  met  him  at  Monteagle  in  the  summer  of  1902, 
his  range  of  thought  was  wider  and  there  was  a 
deeper  note  in  his  pathos  than  when  we  worked 
together  in  Nashville.  We  are  both  of  us  now 
standing  where  we  hear  more  distinctly  the  mur- 
mur of  the  Shoreless  Sea. 

Bishop  Henry  C.  Morrison — look  at  him  as  he 


The  Bishops.  91 

stands  there  square  and  firm  on  his  feet,  decision 
in  every  line  of  his  face,  his  robust  frame  in  a 
pose  that  somehow  reveals  the  born  orator  even 
when  his  lips  are  closed.  How  strong  he  look-! 
He  was  younger  when  1  first  knew  him.  If  he  has 
lost  somewhat  of  the  buoyancy  of  his  young  man- 
hood, lie  has  gained  in  the  ripeness  and  symmetry 
of  his  Christian  character.  He  may  now  see-  a 
deeper  meaning  in  that  word  of  Jesus:  "Every 
branch  in  me  that  beareth  fruit,  he  purgeth  it  that 
it  may  bring  forth  more  fruit."  i  b-  has  alv 
been  a  worker  in  the  vineyard  of  his  Lord.  He 
handled  the  missionary  affairs  with  fidelity  and 
large  success.  But  very  properly  he  has  alw< 
regarded  preaching  as  his  chief  vocation.  When 
God  calls  a  man  to  preach,  woe  to  him  if  he  calls 
himself  to  anything  else  instead!  Providential 
disabilities  are  of  course  excepted.  The  apostle 
Paul  was  kept  from  preaching  several  years  by 
being  put  in  jail,  but  just  as  soon  as  he  was  let 
out  he  began  again.  There  is  no  need  that  any 
connectional  officer  of  the  Church  who  is  a  preach- 
hould  "rust  out"  in  that  work  for  lack  of  op- 
portunity. It  only  widens  his  sphere,  and  incre;: 
his  value  as  a  ministerial  unit.  Bishop  Morrison 
belongs  to  a  generation  of  Kentucky  preachers  fol- 


92  Fifty  Years. 

lowing  Bascam,  Kavanaugh,  Morton,  and  others 
like  them — men  of  full  stature,  fiery  and  tender  by 
turns,  too  much  in  earnest  to  take  time  for  specu- 
lation in  the  pulpit,  with  too  much  common  sense 
to  make  a  bother  about  the  mint,  anise,  and  cum- 
min of  a  religion  of  mere  form.  Bishop  Morrison 
understands  the  text:  "Preach  the  word  in  season, 
and  out  of  season."  That  is,  to  preach  it  whenever 
opportunity  offers.  It  means  the  preaching  of  a 
man  whose  love  for  souls  is  as  a  fire  in  his  bones, 
and  who  above  all  things  prays  that  he  may  by  any 
and  all  means  save  some.  His  individuality  is 
marked.  He  thinks  for  himself,  and  acts  accord- 
ingly. He  has  his  own  way  of  expressing  himself 
— it  is  terse,  picturesque  in  spots,  always  moving 
toward  one  end,  namely,  carrying  the  stronghold 
of  the  enemy.  The  great  sorrow  that  has  come  to 
his  heart  and  home  will  draw  him  closer  to  the 
heart  of  his  Lord  and  bring  closer  to  him  the  heart 
of  this  sorrowing  world.  The  best  things,  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  word,  ought  to  be  ahead  of  this 
servant  of  God  for  both  worlds.  He  knows  the 
one  condition — fidelity. 

Bishop  A.  Coke  Smith,  though  officially  the 
youngest  of  all  the  bishops,  is  one  of  the  most  ma- 
ture in  experience  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  versa- 


The  Bishops.  93 

tile  in  gifts.  He  knows  books,  men,  and  business. 
Like  a  good  family  horse,  he  works  well  every- 
where. The  Church  has  always  given  him  enough 
to  do.  The  only  objection  I  ever  heard  to  his 
election  to  the  bishopric  was,  that  it  was  a  pity  to 
take  such  a  man  from  the  pastorate.  It  would  be 
uttering  a  truism  to  say  here  that  a  man  who  would 
not  be  missed  and  mourned  elsewhere  would  be  out 
of  place  in  the  office  of  bishop.  Bishop  Smith  was 
in  the  eye  of  the  Church  as  a  coming  man  many 
years  ago — and  when  the  hopes  of  his  brethren 
came  to  fruition  in  his  election  to  the  office  of 
bishop,  to  many  of  them  it  seemed  a  matter  of 
course.  When  he  was  filling  one  of  the  professor- 
ships in  Vanderbilt  University,  the  boys  liked  him 
because  he  was  manly  and  friendly.  Wherever  he 
has  served  as  a  pastor,  his  parishioners  became 
hard  to  satisfy  with  any  other  man.  In  the  pulpit 
his  logic  is  strong,  his  language  is  elegant,  and  his 
aim  so  direct  that  it  cannot  be  misunderstood; 
that  aim  is  the  salvation  of  souls.  The  Church 
years  ago  had  learned  to  expect  that  he  would 
build  up  any  charge  he  served;  and  also  that  by 
prudent  conduct  and  sensible  methods  he  would 
conserve  what  he  gained.  He  has  not  had  the 
time,  even  if  he  had  the  inclination,  to  follow  new 


94  Fifty  Years. 

lights  or  to  keep  step  with  the  procession  of  gar- 
rulous reformers  of  our  time  who  seem  to  think 
that  what  is  needed  is  more  light  in  a  generation 
which  falls  so  far  short  of  living  up  to  the  light 
which  it  actually  possesses.  The  real  danger  lies 
in  the  direction  of  its  withdrawal,  according  to  the 
law  that  has  never  once  failed  in  its  operation  under 
similar  conditions  in  all  the  history  of  this  world. 
"If  the  light  that  is  in  thee  become  darkness,  how 
great  is  that  darkness" — no  one  can  tell,  whether 
it  be  applied  to  a  whole  generation  of  forgetful 
souls,  or  to  any  one  of  their  number.  Bishop 
Smith  is  one  of  those  men  who  never  enjoy  robust 
health,  now  and  then  giving  indications  of  a  break- 
down, who  yet  keep  at  work,  gaining  all  the  while 
in  spiritual  perception  and  power — "growing  in 
grace  and  in  the  knowledge  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,"  as  the  apostle  puts  it.  I  have  already  said, 
in  connection  with  his  work  as  a  teacher,  that  Bish- 
op Smith  is  manly  and  friendly.  It  ought  to  be 
added  here  that  he  is  thoughtful  and  brotherly  as 
well:  if  any  office  on  earth  requires  thoughtfulness 
and  brotherliness  it  is  that  of  a  bishop.  There  is 
not  a  perfunctory  atom  in  his  whole  make-up.  He 
"belongs"  to  his  Lord  and  his  Church.  At  the 
start  he  gave,  and  he  still  gives,  that  evidence  that 


The  Bishops.  95 

he  has  passed  from  death  unto  life,  that  he  loves 
the  brethren.  That  love  begets  love — the  love 
that  lives  forever. 

[The  friendly  reader  will  notice  the  omission  of 
one  name  from  the  sketches  of  the  bishops  in  the 
foregoing  chapter — that  of  Bishop  Hoss.  The  ex- 
planation is  found  in  the  fact  that  it  appears  else- 
where under  this  heading:  "An  Expanded  East 
Tennessean."  It  is  printed  just  as  it  was  written 
some  years  ago  while  Bishop  Hoss  was  editor  of 
the  Christian  Advocate  at  Nashville.  He  is  the 
same  man,  plus  some  experiences  that  have  not 
caused  any  diminution  but  have  brought  him  en- 
largement without  alloy.] 


WHERE  MY  ROAD  FORKED 

7  (97) 


Where  My  Road  Forked. 

It  was  a  strange  little  episode  in  the  life  of  a  man 
whose  sense  of  ill  desert  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
singular  manifestations  of  the  mercies  of  God  in 
his  behalf  on  the  other,  humble,  melt,  and  bewilder 
him  as  he  writes  these  lines.  The  reader  is  left 
to  his  own  interpretation  of  it. 

I  was  sitting  in  an  alcove  of  the  California  State 
Library  one  night  in  the  winter  of  1872.  I  had 
held  the  office  of  chaplain  to  the  popular  branch  of 
the  State  Legislature,  keeping  up  my  work  as 
editor  of  the  Pacific  Methodist  Advocate,  then  as 
now  the  Pacific  coast  organ  of  the  Southern  Meth- 
odists, so  called.  Hearing  a  rapid  step  ascending 
the  stairs,  a  presentiment  came  to  my  mind  that  a 
crisis  was  at  hand  in  my  life.  The  feeling  was  in- 
tensely solemn,  as  well  as  sudden.  There  were 
hurried  knocks  at  the  door;  on  opening  it  a  well- 
known  politician's  face  met  mine,  and  he  began  to 
speak  hurriedly: 

"I  am  just  from  the  caucus  of  the  Democratic 
party,  and  am  instructed  by  its  members  to  say  to 

(99) 


ioo  Fifty  Years. 

you  that  you  can  have  their  unanimous  nomination 
for  United  States  Senator  if  you  will  accept." 

"Get  thee  behind  me,"  I  began — but  my  friend 
the  messenger  interrupted  me,  his  face  flushing  as 
he  spoke: 

"This  is  no  small  matter,  and  no  slight  token  of 
good  will  that  is  offered  to  you.  In  case  of  your 
acceptance,  peace  and  harmony  will  be  restored  to 
the  party." 

"May  I  ask  you,  my  friend,  to  bear  for  me  this 
message  to  the  caucus?"  I  said.  "Tell  them  that 
I  am  profoundly  touched  by  the  expression  of  their 
good  will,  but  my  vocation  is  not  politics.  To  ac- 
cept this  nomination  would  change  the  whole 
course  of  my  life;  it  would  be  taking  the  wrong 
fork  of  the  road.  I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the  honor 
intended,  but  my  mind  is  clear  and  my  purpose 
fixed:  I  must  and  do  thankfully  decline.  Within 
a  month  from  now  my  best  friends  belonging  to 
the  caucus  will  feel  and  say  that  I  made  the  right 
decision." 

My  expectation  was  fulfilled.  Most  of  the  mem- 
bers of  that  party  caucus  within  a  very  short  time 
expressed  their  approval  of  my  declination  of  the 
nomination  kindly  tendered  by  them.     One  or  two 


Where  My  Road  Forked.  101 

of  the  number  were  less  forgiving:  their  manner 
toward  me  was  always  colder  thereafter. 

But  what  impressed  me  at  the  time,  and  still 
impresses  me  solemnly  thirty  years  afterwards,  is 
my  sudden  presentiment  that  a  moral  crisis  in  my 
life  was  at  hand.  I  had  not  had  the  remotest 
thought  that  any  such  nomination  was  coming  to 
me;  it  had  never  been  mentioned  to  me  by  any 
human  being.  The  sense  of  peril  and  the  sense  of 
deliverance  following  my  decision  were  equally  sud- 
den. Did  a  voice  speak  to  my  inner  ear?  Did 
an  invisible  hand  hold  me  back?  Yes,  thank  God! 
Had  I  accepted  that  nomination,  I  should  not  now 
be  sitting  at  my  writing  desk  this  August  18th, 
1902,  tracing  these  lines  with  a  grateful  heart  and 
a  holy  hope  glowing  in  my  soul.  Whether  suc- 
cessful or  unsuccessful  as  a  politician,  I  should  then 
and  there  have  parted  with  my  peace.  Esau's 
mess  of  pottage  did  not  satisfy  him.  Many  of  his 
successors  fail  even  to  get  the  paltry  prizes  for 
which  they  bargain.  That  the  roads  "forked"  for 
me  that  night,  I  am  certain;  that  it  was  the  mercy 
of  a  good  God  that  led  me  to  take  the  right  way, 
is  a  conviction  that  I  expect  to  carry  with  me  to 
my  last  day  on  earth. 


ABOUT  SOME  POLITICIANS  AND 
POLITICS. 

(io3) 


About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics. 

I  am  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  average  poli- 
tician— the  chronic  office-seeker  and  the  chronic 
officeholder — deteriorates  in  character.  Many  of 
them  stoop  to  conquer  at  the  start,  and  never  stand 
erect  afterwards.  Not  a  few  sink  lower  and  still 
lower,  until  detection  in  some  unpardonable  and 
unconcealable  delinquency  or  death  brings  the  in- 
evitable catastrophe.  Like  other  men,  politicians 
sow  as  they  reap.  Entangled  by  a  little  deceit, 
they  are  tempted  to  conceal  it  or  to  evade  its  con- 
sequences by  other  deceptions,  each  one  becoming 
an  additioanl  strand  in  the  fatal  chord.  I  have 
noticed  that  almost  uniformly  any  politician,  small 
or  great,  who  achieved  a  reputation  for  cunning 
as  an  electioneerer  or  as  a  party  manager,  failed  of 
lasting  success.  The  names  of  a  number  of  gifted 
men  will  occur  to  the  intelligent  reader  in  this  con- 
nection. On  the  other  hand,  no  reader  of  Amer- 
ican history  or  observer  of  what  has  taken  place 
during  this  generation  can  fail  to  be  struck  with 
wonder  at  the  success  of  the  blunt  and  seemingly 
blundering  men  who  have  achieved  their  success 

(105) 


106  Fifty  Years. 

in  spite  of  the  utmost  indifference  to  public  opinion 
and  an  utter  lack  of  the  suavity  and  tactfulness  that 
so  many  deem  needful  for  the  man  who  would 
win  the  applause  and  gain  the  votes  of  his  fellows. 
The  American  people,  while  they  are  ready,  at 
short  notice,  to  make  a  demigod  of  a  man  who 
wins  battles  and  wears  brass  buttons,  have  a  way 
of  letting  an  unmasked  demagogue  drop  very  sud- 
denly into  obscurity  or  infamy.  They  are  naming 
children  after  Andrew  Jackson  unto  this  day  from 
Boston  to  the  sunset.  If  Henry  Clay  had  been  as 
brilliant  a  soldier  in  the  field  as  he  was  eloquent  in 
oratory  and  able  in  statesmanship,  he  would  have 
swept  the  country  in  a  very  whirlwind  of  popular 
enthusiasm.  Zachary  Taylor — "old  Rough  and 
Ready,"  they  dubbed  him — stayed  at  home  and 
held  his  peace  after  his  nomination  for  the  Presi- 
dency, while  his  partisans  exploited  his  military 
achievements,  and  he  was  duly  elected.  Winfield 
Scott,  his  superior  as  a  soldier,  and  certainly  not 
his  inferior  in  qualifications  for  the  duties  of  a  civil 
ruler,  in  his  anxiety  for  success  was  brought  down 
by  the  recoil  of  his  own  overcharged  guns — to 
use  a  military  figure.  He  made  himself  ridiculous, 
by  what  seemed  to  be  foppishness  of  manner  and 
by  the  absurdity  of  some  of  his  sayings  intended 


About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics.  107 

for  the  popular  ear.  The  opposition  dubbed  him 
"Old  Fuss  and  Feathers,"  quoted  his  silly  sayings, 
and  he  was  literally  laughed  down. 

The  pursuit  of  politics  is  usually  and  almost 
inevitably  a  hardening  process.  Partisans  allow 
themselves  a  latitude  that  is  amazing  in  their  de- 
traction and  abuse  of  political  opponents.  This 
is  the  fashion  of  our  country — and  an  evil  fashion 
it  is.  Men  of  gentlemanly  instincts  and  kindly 
hearts  are  often  sensitive  in  their  natures,  and  feel 
deeply  the  wounds  inflicted  without  malice  afore- 
thought in  the  mere  wantonness  of  political  debate. 
Acting  upon  the  law  of  retaliation,  they  strike  back 
when  coarsely  assailed,  and  before  they  are  aware 
of  it  they  are  in  danger  of  becoming  as  violent 
and  as  coarse  as  their  assailants.  I  have  seen  men 
of  lofty  type  harden  under  these  influences.  They 
become  jealous,  suspicious,  revengeful.  In  cases 
where  special  personal  rivalries  have  existed,  duels 
have  been  fought  between  men  who  have  fought 
to  the  political  death  of  one  or  the  other  with  a 
persistent  and  cold-blooded  savageness  that  fur- 
nishes a  sad  illustration  of  what  is  in  human  nature 
on  its  under  side  when  its  selfish  instincts  are  al- 
lowed free  course.  These  duels  are  sometimes 
fought  between  men  of  the  same  political  party, 


108  Fifty  Years. 

but  are  not  on  that  acount  any  the  less  savage. 
Such  a  duel,  it  is  said,  was  fought  by  Blaine  and 
Conkling:  they  both  had  a  presidential  bee  buzzing 
in  their  bonnets,  and  neither  was  willing  to  give 
way  for  the  other.  If  Blaine  was  bitter  in  his  feeling 
toward  his  rival,  it  was  an  exceptional  experience 
with  him.  He  was  the  most  amiable  of  men:  he 
delighted  in  kindliness  to  all  sorts  of  people.  Even 
his  most  decided  political  foes,  after  they  had  once 
met  him,  had  a  pleasant  memory  of  him  and  a  kind 
word  for  him  ever  after.  There  is  a  pathos  in  his 
story  that  goes  to  the  heart:  its  moral  does  not 
need  to  be  pointed  here.  Lincoln  and  Douglas 
were  rivals  with  something  of  the  usual  result. 
Douglas — alert,  full  of  energy,  intensely  ambitious, 
and  much  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way  in  Il- 
linois— did  not  mince  his  words  in  describing  the 
man  Lincoln  and  his  party.  And  Lincoln,  though 
we  cannot  think  of  him  as  employing  invective  or 
losing  his  temper,  we  may  be  sure  did  not  fail  to 
make  his  rival  feel  the  keenness  of  his  satire  and  to 
wince  under  the  strokes  of  his  humor.  Calhoun  and 
Webster,  as  representatives  of  opposing  political 
ideas,  were  pitted  against  each  other  while  they 
were  living,  and  are  thought  of  by  their  country- 
men in  the  same  way  since  their  death.      If  they 


About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics.    109 

were  conscious  of  any  personal  element  in  their 
contention,  they  were  too  wise  to  let  it  be  known 
by  any  spiteful  word  or  act.  Webster  polished  his 
periods  and  burnished  his  rhetoric  and  thundered 
grandly  as  the  expounder  of  the  Constitution  and 
defender  of  the  Federal  Union.  Calhoun,  .as  the 
defender  of  minority  rights  and  strict  construction 
of  the  Constitution,  linked  his  logic  in  mighty  ar- 
guments that  are  classics  in  the  literature  of  poli- 
tics. The  fourth  of  July  orators  quote  Webster's 
majestic  and  mellifluous  flights  of  patriotic  elo- 
quence, and  the  schoolboys  declaim  them  enthusi- 
astically all  over  the  land  unto  this  day.  Students 
of  political  economy  and  inquisitive  scholars  of 
every  sort,  who  wish  to  know  what  is  what  and 
who  is  who  in  American  history,  read  Calhoun 
in  their  quiet  hours — if  not  to  be  convinced  and 
converted  to  his  views,  yet  with  increasing  ad- 
miration of  his  genius.  Which  was  the  greater 
of  the  two?  Both — Webster  as  an  orator,  Cal- 
houn as  a  thinker.  Their  places  are  secure  in 
our  American  Hall  of  Fame,  where  their  statues 
might  fitly  be  placed  side  by  side.  Thus  they  will 
be  thought  of  by  succeeding  generations  of  their 
countrymen.  Neither  of  them  ever  reached  the 
Presidency,   but   their  fame  will   not   be   thereby 


no  Fifty  Years. 

diminished  as  the  decades  come  and  go.  Per- 
spective obscures  or  totally  hides  a  small  figure, 
while  it  reveals  the  symmetry  and  real  grandeur 
of  a  great  one.  At  a  time  (in  the  early  forties) 
when  I  had  the  privilege  of  getting  Mr.  Calhoun's 
thoughts  at  second  hand  as  expressed  by  himself 
in  letters  to  a  friend,  he  seemed  to  feel  a  far  greater 
interest  in  the  religion  of  Christ  and  in  the  question 
of  a  future  state  of  existence  than  in  the  conten- 
tions of  political  parties  or  the  rivalries  of  politi- 
cians. Both  of  these  great  Americans,  however 
they  may  have  differed  on  minor  questions,  have 
left  on  record  the  expression  of  their  belief  in  the 
divinity  of  Jesus  Christ  and  their  trust  in  him  as 
the  Saviour  of  sinners.  Calhoun  inclined  to  Swe- 
denborgianism;  Webster  held  to  the  creed  of  his 
mother,  who  was  a  Congregationalist. 

During  his  thirty  years'  service  in  the  United 
States  Senate,  Thomas  H.  Benton  had  no  rival, 
strictly  speaking,  in  his  own  State  of  Missouri. 
Doubtless  there  were  plenty  of  smaller  and  young- 
er men  who  were  ready  to  take  his  place.  He  was 
the  peer  of  the  giants  who  were  his  fellow-senators. 
He  was  not  as  witty  as  were  some  of  them,  nor  as 
brilliant  in  declamation  as  were  some  of  the  rest, 
but  in  a  general  way  he  knew  more  than  all  of  them 


About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics.    1 1 1 

put  together.  After  he  had  made  examination  and 
expressed  a  definite  opinion  with  regard  to  any 
question  of  fact,  debate  was  in  most  cases  practi- 
cally ended.  The  settlement  of  the  Oregon  bound- 
ary line  was  substantially  his  work.  His  array  of 
facts  and  figures  on  the  currency  question  gave 
him  the  sobriquet  of  "Old  Bullion/"  and  his  utter- 
ances are  a  factor  to  this  day  in  the  molding  of 
public  opinion  in  these  United  States.  He  was 
strong  and  steadfast  in  his  beliefs  and  purposes,  a 
publicist  worthy  of  the  name,  who  gave  his  country 
service  that  was  inspired  by  genuine  patriotism  and 
guided  by  a  comprehensive  knowledge  of  affairs, 
with  rare  sagacity  in  practical  statesmanship.  In 
his  last  days  he  was  a  man  of  sorrows:  death  visited 
his  home  so  often  that,  to  use  his  own  words,  the 
face  of  the  undertaker  became  so  familiar  to  him 
that  it  was  almost  pleasant,  reminding  him  that  he 
would  soon  follow  his  dead  children  to  the  grave, 
and  turning  his  sad  heart  to  the  lively  hope  of  the 
resurrection  of  the  dead  by  the  living  Christ. 

Gwin  and  Broderick — "Duke"  Gwin,  and 
"Dave"  Broderick,  as  they  were  popularly  known 
at  home  and  abroad — were  strangely  matched  in 
California  politics.  They  both  belonged  to  the 
same  political  party,  Gwin  a  Southerner  from  Mis- 


ii2  Fifty  Years. 

sissippi,  Broderick  a  New  Yorker.  Gwin  was  the 
son  of  a  Methodist  preacher,  and  never  lost  the 
marks  of  his  heredity;  Broderick  was  of  Irish  and 
Roman  Catholic  parentage.  Gwin  was  a  man  of 
mark  in  any  company,  of  colossal  size  and  com- 
manding appearance.  He  knew  men,  was  a  born 
politician,  idolized  the  memory  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son, and  never  lost  a  lingering  fondness  for  the 
Methodists,  though  he  wandered  far  away  from  the 
Methodist  fold.  Broderick  was  a  ruddy-faced, 
thick-chested,  athletic  man,  who  ran  with  "the 
boys"  in  the  fire  companies,  and  held  about  the 
same  relation  to  the  Roman  Catholics  that  his 
rival  held  toward  the  Methodists.  Both  aspired 
to  the  United  States  Senatorship:  Gwin  was  in, 
and  wished  to  stay;  Broderick  thought  that  rota- 
tion in  office  was  good  Democratic  doctrine,  and 
thought  that  his  time  had  come  to  exchange  the 
chieftainship  of  the  San  Francisco  primaries  for 
senatorial  honors  and  emoluments.  They  were 
curiously  but  not  unequally  matched.  Gwin,  being 
already  in  office,  had  inside  leverage  and  powerful 
backing  from  the  outside.  Broderick  was  person- 
ally popular  with  the  young  Democracy  that  made 
the  most  noise  and  did  the  larger  part  of  the  voting 
where  noise  and  votes  counted.     The  contest  was 


About  Some  Politicians  and  Politics.    1 13 

at  the  first  animated,  then  it  became  bitter,  and  at 
last  ended  in  a  tragedy.  Poor  Dave  Broderick! 
he  went  to  the  field  as  a  duelist,  and  was  shot  by 
Judge  Terry,  also  known  as  "Dave"  Terry  among 
the  early  Californians,  who  nicknamed  almost 
everybody  and  everything  "for  short,"  from  "Fris- 
co" to  "Jimtown."  Later,  Terry  was  shot  dead  in 
his  tracks  by  another  Californian  who  was  quick 
on  the  trigger  as  himself,  and  who  "got  the  drop" 
on  him,  as  they  put  it  in  shooting  circles. 

I  fear  that  it  is  true,  as  I  have  already  intimated, 
that  the  average  politician  deteriorates  in  charac- 
ter. Some  make  a  sort  of  drawn  battle  of  it,  losing 
and  gaining  ground  from  time  to  time,  deceiving 
themselves  by  the  sophistries  that  self-love  is  ready 
to  accept.  One  of  these  is  embodied  in  the  maxim 
that  "the  end  justifies  the  means";  and  another 
like  unto  it  is  expressed  in  the  adage  that  "the 
devil  must  be  fought  with  fire."  Both  are  soph- 
isms silly  enough  to  satisfy  even  the  Father  of 
Lies  himself. 

There  is  not  room  enough  in  these  pages  to 
register  the  names  of  those  who  were  caught  in  the 
whirl  of  the  peculiar  temptations  that  beset  men 
in  public  life  and  swept  to  swift  destruction.  There 
are  tragedies  of  this  sort  written  in  letters  of  fire 
8 


H4  Fifty  Years. 

in  every  state,  every  county,  every  township  in  all 
this  land.  God  save  a  young  man  who  starts  on 
this  treacherous  sea  so  strewn  with  wrecks !  There 
is  only  one  Pilot  who  can  be  trusted  to  steer  him 
safely.  Some  names  will  occur  to  my  readers  just 
here — names  of  public  men  who  withstood  the 
stress  of  temptation  and  were  faithful  unto  the 
end.  Not  all  of  them  have  received  their  crowns 
of  honor  alike  in  this  world,  but  their  fame  will 
brighten  here  as  the  years  roll  on,  and  the  Right- 
eous Judge  will  reward  each  according  to  his  work 
in  the  day  that  shall  try  them  as  by  fire.  I  have  an 
outstanding  (conditional)  engagement  to  be  pres- 
ent when  a  distinguished  member  of  the  United 
States  Senate — a  man  with  a  brilliant  record  of 
heroism  in  the  field  and  eloquence  in  the  forum — 
formally  signifies  his  allegiance  to  his  mother's 
God  by  uniting  with  his  mother's  Church.  While 
he  waits,  the  hour  draws  nigh  when  he  will  have 
to  answer  another  summons  in  the  imperative 
mood  and  present  tense.  The  policy  of  delay 
adopted  by  him  and  all  such  is  not  the  way  to  the 
Victory  of  Faith. 


ABOUT  TEACHING,  AND  SOME 
TEACHERS. 

("5) 


About  Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers. 

Teaching  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word  is 
a  vocation — that  is  to  say,  a  calling  by  the  will  of 
God.  That  is  the  definition  according  to  the  dic- 
tionary. In  the  dialect  of  the  plantation  of  the 
cotton  country  the  true  teacher  is  "marked"  for 
it.  That  many  have  come  into  the  work  of  teach- 
ing without  this  call,  is  painfully  true.  Ignorance 
has  pretended  to  teach  the  ignorant.  The  ability 
to  teach  is  an  indispensable  sign  of  a  call  to  teach. 
No  man  can  teach  what  he  does  not  know.  The 
next  requisite  for  the  true  teacher  is  enthusiasm. 
The  man  who  is  called  to  teach  is  an  enthusiast 
in  his  devotion  to  that  work.  He  prefers  teaching 
to  any  other  employment.  He  would  rather  make 
a  bare  living  at  teaching  than  to  make  much  money 
by  doing  something  else.  The  fact  that  but  few 
teachers  do  make  money  does  not  repel  the  man 
who  has  a  call.  The  reader  will  think  of  the  famous 
teachers  he  has  known  from  personal  acquaintance 
or  by  reputation,  and  will  find  no  exception  to  the 
rule:  the  true  teacher  is  an  enthusiast.  Concen- 
tration is  another  condition  of  success.     No  one 

(»7) 


u8  Fifty  Years. 

man  can  do  everything  equally  well.  The  smat- 
terer  at  everything  is  a  failure  all  round.  Every- 
thing becomes  more  and  more  multiform  and  com- 
plex in  our  modern  civilization.  The  competitor 
who  is  not  a  specialist  usually  goes  down  surely 
and  quickly.  The  successful  teacher  stirs  up  the 
special  gift  that  is  in  him;  this  one  thing  he  does 
with  all  his  might.  That  is  the  way  the  Binghams 
and  the  Webbs  did  great  things  whereof  we  are 
glad  here  in  the  South.  This  is  the  way  in  which 
men  like  them  did  great  things  whereof  others  are 
glad  in  other  parts  of  our  land.  Knowledge,  en- 
thusiasm, concentration,  specialization,  are  the 
conditions  of  success,  and  the  signs  of  a  vocation 
rather  than  an  avocation.  The  true  teacher  may 
be  tempted  in  hours  of  despondency  and  weariness 
and  heartache,  from  which  none  wholly  escape  in 
this  life,  to  think  that  his  calling  is  laborious, 
meager  in  results,  and  often  thankless.  From 
these  moods  and  moments  of  gloom  no  worker 
with  high  ideals  and  keen  sensibilities  is  wholly 
exempt.  Yet  among  the  names  held  closest  to 
the  heart  of  the  world  are  those  of  the  men  and 
women  who  have  followed  the  Great  Teacher  in 
devoting  their  lives  to  building  character  on  right 
foundations  for  eternity  instead  of  making  money. 


Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers.       119 

The  images  of  a  noble  company  of  such  teachers 
crowd  upon  my  vision  as  I  write.  Will  the  friendly 
reader  allow  me  to  take  a  group  picture  of  some  of 
these?  Only  a  few  words  of  introduction  will  be 
allowed  for  each  one,  though  a  folio  would  not  be 
beyond  what  some  of  them  deserve.  Take  them  as 
they  come. 

There  is  Landon  C.  Garland,  a  gentleman  of 
the  old  school,  scholar,  manly,  saintly.  "It  was 
not  so  much  what  Dr.  Garland  taught  me  when 
I  was  his  pupil  at  Randolph-Macon,  but  what  he 
was  before  my  eyes  in  his  daily  life,  that  makes  me 
owe  him  so  large  a  debt  of  gratitude  and  affection," 
said  Bishop  McTyeire.  Dr.  Garland  as  Chancellor 
of  Vanderbilt  University  wrought  well  in  scholas- 
tic service,  but  he  did  what  was  still  better:  by  his 
influence  and  example  he  infused  the  leaven  of 
Christian  character  into  the  lives  of  many  young 
men  who  will  help  in  their  turn  to  leaven  all  the 
circles  they  touch.  Revered  and  beloved  old  sage 
and  saint,  his  spirit  still  walks  in  the  campus  groves 
and  lingers  in  the  classic  halls  of  the  university, 
an  imperishable  benediction. 

Here  is  George  W.  F.  Price,  an  educator  all  over 
and  through  and  through.  He  was  a  man  who  had 
the  polish  of  learning  and  the  glow  of  religious 


120  Fifty  Years. 

fervor  rarely  blended.  I  never  think  of  him  with- 
out a  fresh  sense  of  thankfulness  that  this  genera- 
tion had  the  blessing  of  such  a  life  as  his.  The 
young  women  who  carried  into  their  homes  the 
best  things  he  taught  them  revealed  what  is  meant 
by  Christian  culture  when  the  word  is  rightly  used. 
Here  are  the  brothers  John  and  Joseph  Le 
Conte — the  astronomer  and  the  geologist — whose 
uplifting  influence  on  the  beneficiaries  of  their  serv- 
ice will  last  as  long  as  the  stars  shine  in  the  firma- 
ment or  the  Yosemite  Falls  sing  their  song  of 
praise  to  Him  who  in  the  beginning  created  the 
heavens  and  the  earth.  Dr.  John  Le  Conte  illus- 
trated what  has  been  said  concerning  enthusiasm 
and  specialization.  His  passion  was  astronomy, 
and  he  drew  all  his  studies  in  that  direction.  He 
was  the  provisional  president  of  the  University  of 
California  during  a  part  of  my  official  term  as  State 
Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction.  At  my  in- 
vitation he  consented  to  make  an  address  during 
the  session  of  the  State  Teachers'  Institute  in  the 
city  of  San  Francisco.  "You  would  have  me  take 
a  popular  subject  for  my  lecture?"  he  asked.  "Of 
course/'  I  replied;  "a  large  part  of  your  audience 
will  be  teachers  in  the  primary  grades  of  the  public 
schools."     "All  right,"  he  said  cordially,   UI  will 


Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers.       121 

take  a  popular  subject."  Imagine  the  amaze- 
ment and  amusement  I  felt  when  he  sent  me  the 
announcement  of  his  subject,  which  was:  'The 
tenability  of  the  fundamental  assumption  of  the 
Nebular  Hypothesis."  For  nearly  two  hours  he 
argued  before  that  audience  in  behalf  of  his  pet 
astronomical  theory,  oblivious  of  everything  else. 
I  cannot  affirm  that  all  those  maidens  who  taught 
in  the  primary  grades  were  charmed  with  that  most 
learned  discussion  of  what  was  then  a  question  of 
profound  interest  among  leading  scientists  every- 
where. The  younger  brother,  Dr.  Joseph  Le 
Conte,  was  more  widely  known  than  the  older  one 
among  the  learned  in  the  high  places  of  the  earth. 
Elsewhere  in  my  writings  I  have  spoken  of  him 
more  at  length. 

Take  a  glance  now  at  those  two  other  brothers, 
W.  R.  Webb  and  John  Webb.  Both  had  an  un- 
doubted call  to  pedagogy;  each  is  a  genius  in  his 
own  way.  The  older  brother,  W.  R.  Webb — "Old 
Sawney,"  as  he  is  nicknamed  by  his  pedagogical 
family  scattered  over  half  a  continent — possesses 
the  administrative  gift;  he  is  a  true  disciplinarian, 
ruling  wisely  and  well  as  the  headmaster  of  a  school. 
He  is  a  discerner  of  spirits,  by  some  sort  of  intui- 
tion discerning  what  is  in  a  boy  and  which  way  he 


122  Fifty  Years. 

is  going  with  a  strange  facility  and  almost  unerring 
accuracy.  How  is  it,  you  ask,  that  these  men, 
whose  every  thought  is  pure  and  whose  every  im- 
pulse is  noble,  are  such  good  mind-readers,  quick 
to  detect  as  well  as  skillful  to  correct  anything 
wrong  in  their  students?  For  the  same  reason 
that  mother-love  is  quickest  to  detect  any  change 
for  the  worse  in  her  boy.  Nothing  is  so  quick- 
sighted  and  keen-sighted  as  love.  John  Webb, 
the  junior  brother,  is  a  specialist  in  teaching  lan- 
guages: it  is  almost  enough  to  make  an  old  man 
wish  that  he  could  be  a  schoolboy  again  if  thereby 
he  could  have  as  his  instructor  this  prince  of  lin- 
guistic pedagogues.  These  brothers  have  made 
the  little  village  of  Bellbuckle  in  Tennessee — a 
name  that  has  not  a  classic  sound — a  spot  to  which 
will  always  revert  the  grateful  thoughts  of  their 
students,  who,  as  they  are  fighting  the  battles  of 
their  lives,  will  realize  more  and  more  fully  that 
the  discipline  they  were  under  there  was  not  stern, 
but  wise,  and  that  they  carried  thence  the  wisdom 
that  is  more  precious  than  much  fine  gold. 

Here  is  Charles  S.  Smyth,  that  mass  of  mathe- 
matics and  Methodism,  who  was  as  honest  as  the 
multiplication  table,  as  kind  as  a  brother,  and  as 
breezy  as  a  May  morning  on  the  Santa  Rosa  hills. 


Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers.       123 

He  could  cipher  and  laugh  and  weep,  and  you 
might  draw  on  him  without  limit  for  all  that  gave 
dignity  to  manhood  and  value  to  friendship. 

John  M.  Bonnell's  place  in  this  picture  is  just 
here.  In  mental  vigor  he  was  virility  itself;  in 
delicacy  of  thought  and  feeling  he  was  as  sweet 
as  a  white  rose  in  bloom  on  the  Georgia  hills  where 
he  lived  and  taught  so  many  faithful  years.  His 
pulpit  style  was  precise  without  prudishness  or 
pedantry,  and  marked  by  a  felicity  of  diction  that 
charmed  the  ear  and  a  spiritual  glow  that  warmed 
the  heart.  By  some  occult  association,  I  always 
think  of  him  and  that  other  Georgian  who  was  also 
a  teacher  and  a  preacher,  Professor  Charles  W. 
Lane,  in  the  same  connection.  After  knowing 
these  two  Christian  teachers,  the  one  a  Methodist 
and  the  other  a  Presbyterian,  it  seems  to  me  im- 
possible to  doubt  that  there  is  something  in  the 
Christian  religion  that  lifts  its  possessor  above 
what  is  to  be  expected  from  human  nature  in  its 
best  estate  without  it. 

Another  figure  is  in  my  mind's  eye,  and  another 
name  is  at  my  pen  point — that  of  W.  A.  Robert- 
son, otherwise  known  in  San  Francisco  as  Pro- 
fessor Robertson,  Principal  Robertson,  Rebel 
Robertson,  and  in  the  social  circle  that  knew  him 


124  Fifty  Years. 

best  "Billy"  Robertson.  He  was  a  many-sided 
man.  His  courage  was  of  the  quality  that  would 
have  held  the  pass  at  Thermopylae,  or  stood  with 
Horatius  at  the  bridge.  He  was  a  Confederate 
soldier,  a  volunteer  from  Georgia,  and  was  in  the 
ranks  when  the  last  gun  was  fired.  Naturally  he 
found  me  in  my  office  when  he  reached  San  Fran- 
cisco, a  stranger.  A  place  was  found  for  him  as 
a  public  school  teacher  in  the  city,  and  he  was  ef- 
ficient and  popular  from  the  start.  He  was  the 
life  of  every  social  circle  he  entered.  Sympathetic, 
with  a  large  bump  of  human  nature,  witty,  with  a 
rare  histrionic  gift,  "Billy"  Robertson  brightened 
all  hearts  and  homes  wherever  he  went.  He  was 
one  of  the  men  I  took  a  liking  to  at  first  sight,  and 
further  association  knit  us  in  a  close  and  indis- 
soluble fellowship.  Indissoluble,  did  I  say?  He 
has  passed  over  the  narrow  stream  of  death  whither 
his  dear  Christian  mother  had  preceded  him.  On 
the  bright  eternal  hills  beyond  shall  we  meet  again? 
Here  are  some  women  who  have  a  place  in  this 
picture.  Every  head  as  we  gaze  upon  it  seems  to 
be  encircled  with  the  light  reflected  from  the  face 
of  Him  who  taught  with  supreme  wisdom  and  au- 
thority, and  who  is  himself  the  Way,  the  Truth, 
and  the  Life.     Their  names  are  already  written  in 


Teaching,  and  Some  Teachers.       125 

that  book  which  shall  be  opened  when  the  Lord 
shall  reckon  with  his  servants,  rewarding  each  and 
all  according  to  their  works.  Among  them  is 
Rebecca  Field,  who  comes  before  my  mental  vision 
as  she  rose  from  her  knees  in  prayer  in  the  opening 
of  the  little  school  where  I  learned  my  alphabet. 
And  here  is  Laura  Haygood  as  I  last  saw  her  before 
she  went  back  to  China;  she  was  already  marked 
for  death;  we  could  see  that  she  was  a  sufferer  in 
the  body,  but  her  lips  uttered  no  complaints,  and 
a  holy  peace  was  on  her  face.  And  here  are  others, 
yet  alive,  who  are  writing  their  names  in  letters 
of  light  on  living  hearts:  Lucy  Kidd  Key,  who  has 
planted  the  seeds  of  Christian  character  in  so  many 
Texas  homes  to  bloom  in  the  beauty  of  holiness 
long  after  she  has  entered  into  the  promised  rest; 
Clara  Poynter,  who  is  herself  a  living  epistle  of 
Christ,  written  not  with  ink,  but  with  the  Spirit  of 
the  living  God;  and  many  more,  among  them  one 
whose  prayers  are  still  heard  in  the  depths  of  my 
soul,  whose  voice  still  sings  the  songs  of  Zion  to 
my  inner  ear,  and  whose  hand  that  guided  my  boy- 
ish footsteps  beckons  me  to  come  on  to  meet  her 
where  scattered  families  gather  inside  the  gates. 

This  chapter  must  now  come  to  a  close.     Other 
great  names  of  teachers  come  to  my  mind  here — 


126  Fifty  Years. 

among  them  Robert  E.  Lee,  who  in  the  love  of 
God  and  humanity  gave  his  countrymen  a  timely 
lesson  when  he  showed  that  he  preferred  teaching 
to  money-making.  John  A.  Broadus,  Stonewall 
Jackson,  and  other  elect  spirits,  are  in  the  same 
company;  but  they  have  been  pictured  by  other 
hands  outside  of  this  group  which  arranged  itself 
as  it  were  before  memory's  camera. 

It  was  in  my  heart  to  draw  an  outline  picture  of 
Chancellor  Kirkland,  of  Vanderbilt  University — 
a  man  who  by  some  sort  of  intelligence  seems  to 
know  exactly  what  ought  to  be  done,  and  by  some 
sort  of  instinct  knows  how  a  thing  may  best  be 
said  and  done.  With  him  I  thought  of  grouping 
Dr.  Thomas  Dodd,  the  golden-mouthed  Kentuck- 
ian  who  drew  like  a  magnet  and  shone  like  a  star; 
Dr.  David  Sullins,  of  East  Tennessee,  in  whose  soul 
is  the  stored-up  sunshine  of  so  many  summers, 
whose  life  radiates  love  and  light  at  the  sunset;  and 
others  of  their  contemporaries  whose  names  are 
written  on  the  fleshly  tablets  of  the  grateful  hearts 
of  this  generation — but  for  reasons  I  stop  here. 


WITH  THE  BAPTISTS. 

('27) 


With  the  Baptists. 

The  first  Baptists  I  knew  in  my  boyhood  were 
of  the  sort  called  the  Primitive  Baptists.  They 
were  then  a  numerous  people  in  all  that  border 
land  of  the  Dan  River  valley  in  Virginia  and  North 
Carolina.  They  were  a  peculiar  people,  zealous 
for  their  own  opinions,  with  a  habit  of  attending 
to  their  own  affairs.  They  were  a  people  who  paid 
their  debts,  and  frowned  on  man-made  creeds  and 
secret  societies  of  every  sort.  By  some  they  were 
called  Hardshell  Baptists — why  so  called  I  can 
hardly  tell,  unless  it  was  because  of  their  great 
tenacity  of  opinion  and  persistency  of  purpose. 
They  were  mostly  literalists  in  their  modes  of  bib- 
lical interpretation — and  this  made  them  very 
absurd  when  they  chanced  to  be  wrong,  and  very 
firm  and  true  and  strong  when  they  proved  to  be 
right.  In  the  pulpit  they  liked  men  who  made  no 
show  of  book-learning  or  store  clothes.  Of  one  of 
these  Primitive  brethren  in  that  early  day  I  heard 
the  statement  that  in  one  of  his  sermons  he  de- 
nounced some  of  the  prevalent  sins  of  the  times  in 
the  plainest  and  strongest  terms,  saying:  "You  are 
9  (I29) 


130  Fifty  Years. 

a  sinful  set  up  here,  and  you  commit  almost  all 
sorts  of  sins  and  abominations.  But,  my  breth- 
ring,  some  things  is  sins,  and  some  isn't.  As  for 
pitchin'  dollars,  fightin'  chickens,  playin'  cards, 
shootin'  for  beef,  and  drinkin'  whisky,  them  things 
may  be  sins,  or  they  may  not:  the  Scripter  do  not 
say.  But,  my  brethring,  this  thing  of  playin' 
marvels  is  all  wrong — for  the  Scripter  says  em- 
phatically, 'Marvel  not!''  This  brother  was  a 
literalist,  and  his  book-learning  was  small;  but  he 
was  no  more  absurd  than  many  others  in  other 
communions  who  knew  more  than  one  dead  lan- 
guage, and  have  been  dubbed  doctors  of  divinity  in 
due  form.  Pedantry  pronounced  and  honest  illit- 
eracy make  blockheads  that  are  near  akin.  The 
one  saving  element  in  these  illiterate  Primitives 
was  their  honesty.  As  the  light  shone  in  upon 
them  more  strongly,  their  prejudices  were  moder- 
ated, their  sympathies  widened,  and  it  came  to  pass 
that  the  children  and  children's  children  of  these 
Primitive  Baptists  of  my  earliest  acquaintance 
were  drawn  into  the  ranks  of  the  great  Baptist 
Church  of  the  later  time,  whose  people  sat  at  the 
feet  of  such  teachers  as  John  A.  Broadus,  heard  the 
gospel  from  the  lips  of  such  men  as  Sylvanus  Lan- 
drum,  and  kept  step  in  the  ranks  with  such  men  as 


With  the  Baptists.  131 

John  B.  Gordon.  The  trend  of  the  age  and  the 
spirit  of  the  Old  Book  led  them  forward  on  the  line 
of  the  Missionary  Church  which  has  the  promise  of 
the  abiding-  presence  and  power  of  the  risen  Christ, 
whose  right  it  is  to  reign,  and  who  must  reign 
until  all  enemies  are  put  under  his  feet.  Must 
reign — that  is  the  word! 

While  I  was  editing  the  newspaper  organ  of  the 
Southern  Methodists  of  the  Pacific  coast,  pub- 
lished in  San  Francisco,  I  had  a  little  episode  in 
connection  with  the  Baptists  that  I  love  to  think 
of.  The  First  Baptist  congregation  of  that  lively 
city,  so  lively  in  its  movement  and  so  independent 
in  its  ways  of  thinking  and  doing,  lost  their  pastor, 
Dr.  Brierly — a  good  man  who  could  not  harmo- 
nize with  his  choir,  and  so  left.  Sitting  in  my  office 
one  day,  the  kindly  face  of  old  Deacon  Breed  ap- 
peared at  the  door,  and  coming  in  at  my  invitation 
he  said  before  sitting  down:  "Dr.  Fitzgerald,  I 
came  to  get  you  to  scotch  for  us  at  the  First  Baptist 
Church.  We  have  lost  our  pastor,  and  it  will 
probably  take  us  a  good  while  to  obtain  a  suc- 
cessor.    Can  you  help  us?" 

Well,  I  did  help  my  Baptist  brethren  as  best  I 
could,  occupying  their  pulpit  for  several  months, 
preaching  the  old  gospel  of  the  grace  of  God  as  I 


132  Fifty  Years. 

knew  and  felt  it.  Of  course  I  did  not  think  it 
needful  to  specialize  on  the  mode  of  administering 
water  baptism,  but  I  did  emphasize  the  need  of 
the  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost — which  is  the 
baptism  that  brings  light,  love,  and  power  to  the 
believing  soul.  It  was  a  gracious  experience  to 
me.  Not  a  word  was  said  about  money,  but  at 
the  end  of  every  month  the  benign  and  business- 
like old  Deacon  brought  me  one  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  in  gold;  and  I  took  it — to  please  the  Bap- 
tists and  to  help  a  good  cause.  That  Baptist 
money  helped  to  keep  our  Methodist  paper  going 
in  a  time  of  severe  stringency.  It  was  "all  in  the 
family,"  as  the  popular  saying  goes — in  the  spirit- 
ual sense  there  is  only  one  Church,  to  which  all 
true  believers  belong. 

About  once  a  month  the  good  old  Deacon  would 
come  into  my  office  and  say:  "Dr.  Fitzgerald,  we'll 
give  you  a  rest  next  Sunday.  Brother  Gilbert  will 
come  down  from  Stockton,  and  preach  for  us." 
I  knew  what  that  meant,  namely,  that  the  dear  old 
Baptist  preacher  would  come  down  and  immerse 
my  converts  and  give  them  the  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  Supper.  This  was  all  right  with  me:  I 
knew  the  usages  of  the  Baptist  people,  and  if  the 
gospel  I  preached  was  good  enough  for  their  pul- 


With  the  Baptists.  133 

pit,  minor  matters  might  stand  aside,  awaiting  the 
promised  time  when  all  the  Lord's  people  should 
be  one,  even  as  our  Christ  and  his  Father  are  one. 
What  this  means,  who  can  say?  It  is  what  we 
all  desire :  there  is  always  a  glow  in  my  heart  when 
I  think  of  it.  I  will  not  be  living  here  on  earth 
when  that  day  comes.  But  I  look  with  assured 
hope  for  what  will  be  still  better,  namely,  a  meet- 
ing with  a  blessed  company  of  the  Baptists  I  have 
known  and  loved  on  that  shore  where  storms  never 
beat.  Fellowship  then  and  there  will  be  unbroken 
and  unending,  the  fellowship  of  the  saints  in  light. 


MY  STUDENT. 

(■35) 


My  Student. 

That  is  what  he  called  himself — my  student. 
Sitting  in  my  office  at  the  Methodist  Publishing 
House  in  Nashville  one  day  in  the  early  eighties, 
a  colored  man  in  clerical  garb  came  in,  and,  lift- 
ing his  high-crowned  hat,  asked : 

"Is  this  Dr.  Fitzgerald,  editor  of  the  Christian 
Advocate?" 

"Yes,  that  is  my  name,"  I  answered. 

"My  name  is  Blank,  and  I  am  pastor  of  a  col- 
ored Methodist  church  in  Nashville.  I  know  you 
are  a  busy  man,  Doctor,  but  I  have  come  to  ask 
you  to  explain  a  Bible  text  that  I  expect  to  preach 
from  next  Sunday  morning.  There  will  be  hun- 
dreds of  colored  people  there,  and  I  want  to  give 
them  the  pure  gospel  of  Christ  in  its  true  meaning 
and  in  the  right  spirit.,, 

I  drew  a  long  breath,  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  my 
visitor,  who  evidently  was  in  dead  earnest.  I  call 
him  Brother  Blank  because  our  relation  as  teacher 
and  student  was  actually — if  informally — confi- 
dential. He  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he 
felt  the  need  of  help,  and  was  glad  to  get  it.     As 

(i37) 


138  Fifty  Years. 

well-meaning  persons  are  sometimes  hypercritical, 
and  rivalry  is  uncharitable  under  all  shades  of  color, 
it  seems  right  and  proper  to  protect  my  student 
from  unmerited  censure.  As  I  sat  looking  at  him, 
I  said  to  myself:  I  am  indeed  a  busy  man;  grind- 
ing the  organ  for  more  than  a  million  of  Metho- 
dists every  week  is  a  heavy  work  for  any  man; 
my  spare  moments  are  few  and  my  strength  lim- 
ited. But  here  comes  a  call  not  to  be  lightly  dis- 
missed— a  call  to  aid  in  expounding  the  Scrip- 
tures to  a  thousand  black  people,  giving  the  col- 
ored pastor  of  the  flock  what  help  I  can  in  his  ef- 
fort to  teach  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus:  what  an 
opportunity  to  a  man  whose  mind  and  heart  are  in 
tune  for  the  work! 

Brother  Blank  read  my  face,  and  pulling  out 
a  memorandum  book,  he  said,  "Here  is  my  text 
for  to-morrow  morning's  sermon, "  reading  to  me 
as  I  listened.  I  dictated  as  he  wrote  down  the 
words.  It  did  seem  to  me  then,  as  it  has  often 
seemed  to  me  since,  that  the  good  Lord  gave  me 
an  exposition  for  my  colored  brother  more  quickly 
than  when  it  was  for  my  own  use  alone.  He  surely 
was  very  receptive  and  very  grateful.  "The  Lord 
was  with  us  yesterday!"  he  exclaimed  as  he  sa- 
luted me  in  my  office  on  Monday.     "We  had  a  big 


My  Student.  139 

congregation,    much    good    feeling,    and    several 
persons  joined  the  Church." 

That  was  the  way  our  acquaintance  and  fellow- 
ship began.  He  had  a  genius  for  good  texts:  in- 
variably he  chose  passages  of  Scripture  that  were 
pithy  and  practical  rather  than  flowery  or  occult, 
as  the  manner  of  some  is.  At  least  once  a  week 
he  came  in  to  see  me:  if  at  any  time  he  found  me 
more  busy  than  usual,  he  waited  with  unfailing 
patience  until  I  became  ready  to  put  his  text  into 
homiletic  shape.  He  often  encouraged  me  by  as- 
suring me  that  the  Lord  was  with  us.  And  verily 
so  it  seemed  unto  me:  I  got  many  gracious  touches 
to  my  own  soul  while  trying  to  help  my  dusky  stu- 
dent. The  spiritual  glow  enkindled  in  my  soul 
while  in  conference  with  him  must  have  been  felt 
in  the  columns  of  the  Church  paper  and  in  my 
books  that  somehow  seemed  to  write  themselves 
as  it  were  from  time  to  time.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  thus  I  got  a  deeper  insight  into  the  meaning 
of  that  petition  in  the  Lord's  prayer:  "Thy  king- 
dom come" — that  kingdom  which  is  righteousness, 
peace,  and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost — all  in  the  pres- 
ent tense.  This  is  the  order:  let  that  kingdom 
come  in  our  hearts,  in  our  lives,  in  our  homes,  in 
our  churches,  in  our  world.     It  begins  in  the  heart, 


140  Fifty  Years. 

and  takes  in  the  fullness  of  grace  here  and  the  hope 
of  glory  hereafter.  They  who  receive  freely  must 
give  freely. 

The  cistern  that  stores  the  water  from  the  spring 
that  supplies  Monteagle  is  almost  in  sight  from  the 
cottage  in  the  woods  where  these  words  are  writ- 
ten this  August  day,  1902.  The  water  is  pumped 
sparkling,  pure,  and  abundant,  and  is  gathered  into 
a  mighty  reservoir  on  the  top  of  the  mountain. 
The  source  is  practically  inexhaustible,  the  stream 
running  full  and  free  every  day  and  every  moment 
of  the  year.  But  confined  within  the  reservoir 
the  water  would  stagnate  and  be  a  breeder  of  cor- 
ruption and  disease.  The  Master  said  to  his  dis- 
ciples: Go  into  all  the  world  with  this  gospel  of 
my  kingdom,  and  lo,  I  am  with  you  always.  It  is 
only  by  obeying  his  command  that  we  can  receive 
the  blessing  promised,  the  blessing  of  his  presence 
and  the  baptism  of  his  power  in  the  present  tense. 
Now  is  the  day  of  this  salvation. 

Anticipating  in  the  order  of  time,  I  give  here 
an  incident  that  will  illustrate  what  my  student 
and  myself  were  to  each  other.  One  day  when  I 
was  lying  in  bed  disabled  by  that  persistent  and 
incorrigible  ailment  La  Grippe,  brought  to  this 
land  of  ours  by  a  Siberian  bacillus,  which  many  of 


My  Student.  141 

us  could  wish  had  stayed  in  that  land  of  icicles  and 
frost-bites,  he  was  told  that  I  was  confined  to  my 
bed  by  sickness,  and  was  not  able  to  receive  vis- 
itors. 

'Tell  the  Bishop,"  he  pleaded  earnestly,  "that 
I  must  see  him — it  is  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

Thus  urged,  I  strained  a  point,  and  putting  on 
my  apparel  went  downstairs  and  recognized  my 
colored  clerical  brother. 

"What  can  I  do  for  you?"  I  asked. 

"I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you  when  you  are  sick," 
he  replied  in  insinuating  tones,  "but  it  is  truly  a 
matter  of  life  and  death:  to-morrow  I  have  to  of- 
ficiate at  the  funeral  of  one  of  my  most  faithful 
church  members,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me  to 
arrange  the  funeral  sermon  from  this  text  in  the 
fourteenth  chapter  of  Revelation,  thirteenth  verse: 
'Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord/  ' 

His  plea  was  literally  just — it  was  a  matter  of 
life  and  death — and  though  I  felt  a  little  annoyed 
at  the  turn  he  had  taken,  I  did  my  very  best  in  the 
exposition  of  that  precious  passage  of  God's  holy 
word.  His  dark  face  beamed  with  satisfaction  as 
he  penciled  down  the  words  at  my  dictation;  while 
my  own  memory  went  back  over  the  years  that  had 
passed  since  I  first  used  the  same  scripture  as  a 


142  Fifty  Years. 

message  of  consolation  at  the  burial  of  a  believer 
in  California,  away  back  yonder  in  the  early  seven- 
ties. The  smile  of  grateful  satisfaction  on  the  face 
of  my  student  was  an  ample  compensation  for 
whatever  extra  effort  I  had  made  in  imparting  to 
him  homiletical  hints. 

He  came  down  to  the  depot  to  see  me  off  on  the 
occasion  of  my  first  round  after  the  change  of  my 
official  relation  to  the  Church. 

"What  shall  I  do?"  he  asked  with  a  tremor  in  his 
voice.  "I  have  been  your  student  all  these  years, 
and  the  Lord  has  been  with  us.  What  shall  I  do 
without  you?" 

"My  successor,  Dr.  Hoss,  who  is  a  learned  man 
with  a  kindly  heart,  will  be  ready  to  help  you;  and 
there  are  other  learned  and  gifted  doctors  of  di- 
vinity whose  offices  are  at  the  Publishing  House 
who  will  be  able  and  willing  to  do  you  a  friendly 
turn,"  I  answered. 

"That  is  true,"  he  answered;  "they  are  very  kind, 
and  I  am  thankful  for  their  friendly  spirit,  but 
somehow  the  black  folks  don't  understand  them  as 
well  as  they  do  you." 

Thanks  to  my  thankful  student  for  this  word. 
And  thanks  to  the  good  providence  of  God  that 
gave  me  training  in  this  school  so  early  in  my  min- 


My  Student.  143 

isterial  life.  He  sharply  watched  for  my  return  to 
Nashville  from  these  official  journeys  from  time  to 
time,  and  he  always  had  one  or  more  texts  of 
Scripture  ready  for  our  consideration.  Let  me  say 
again:  My  student  surely  had  a  genius  for  the 
choice  of  good  texts,  whether  his  teacher  had  a 
genius  for  homiletics  or  not.  And  again  let  me 
say  that  I  got  more  good  than  I  imparted  in  these 
efforts  to  help  my  student.  "It  is  more  blessed  to 
give  than  to  receive" — if  you  give  in  the  Master's 
name  and  in  his  spirit. 


AN  EXPANDED  EAST  TENNESSEAN. 
10  (H5) 


An  Expanded  East  Tennessean. 

The  living  friends  who  know  us  both  know  how 
close  is  my  relation  to  Dr.  E.  Embree  Hoss.  The 
providence  of  God  brought  us  together;  the  law 
of  affinities  did  the  rest.  I  was  in  California  many 
years  before  he  came.  He  was  then  a  very  young 
man,  and  looked  younger  than  he  was.  He  was 
thrown  into  rough  waters  at  the  start  over  there, 
and  learned  to  swim  where  many  have  been  bruised 
among  the  rocks  and  some  have  gone  down. 
Here  he  had  new  lessons  in  human  nature,  and 
learned  new  notes  in  the  song  of  degrees  which 
makes  the  strangely  varied  music  of  a  life — a  song 
whose  notes  become  more  and  more  jangled  and 
tuneless  if  the  life  be  not  pitched  on  the  right  key, 
but  which  when  rightly  pitched  gets  sweeter  and 
still  sweeter  until  it  is  lost  in  solemn  silence  at 
the  grave.  On  this  twentieth  day  of  June,  1898, 
the  thought  of  my  friend  was  in  my  heart  and  my 
pen  was  in  my  hand,  and  what  follows  took  form 
then  and  there. 

A  many-sided  man  is  Dr.  Hoss.     He  is  a  schol- 
ar.    Scholars  are  few  in  any  circle.     His  knowl- 

(H7) 


148  Fifty  Years. 

edge  is  wide  and  exact.  He  knows  much,  and 
knows  what  he  knows.  His  memory  grasps  and 
holds  all  within  its  reach.  His  acquisitions  are 
coordinated  by  sound  judgment  and  good  taste. 
He  is  a  two-sided  man  in  the  sense  that  in  his  sen- 
sibilities he  is  as  tender  as  tenderness  itself,  while 
his  courage  is  as  tempered  steel.  His  heart  is  an 
ocean  of  feeling,  his  will  is  an  immovable  rock. 
All  who  like  him  love  him.  All  who  fight  him 
know  that  they  fight  a  man  who  is  fearless.  I 
have  seen  him,  when  every  instinct  of  caution  on 
the  human  side  would  prompt  evasive  utterance 
or  cowardly  silence,  throw  himself  into  a  contest 
for  a  principle  or  for  a  friend  with  a  dash  of  en- 
thusiasm and  an  aggressive  vigor  that  swept  the 
field.  Again  I  have  known  him  to  lead  a  charge 
where  he  knew  that  victory  was  impossible.  Two 
strains  of  blood  were  in  his  veins.  His  father's 
family — the  Hosses — were  Dutch;  his  mother's 
side — the  Seviers — were  Huguenot.  He  could 
stand  a  siege  with  the  sturdiness  that  came  of 
generations  of  Hollanders  who  believed  in  God 
and  could  wait  on  his  providence.  He  could 
kindle  with  wrath  or  pity  as  instantly  as  any 
Frenchman  that  ever  fought  a  battle  or  felt  a  sor- 
row.    During  the  last  decades  of  my  life  he  was, 


An  Expanded  East  Tennessean.      149 

as  I  have  said,  one  of  my  dearest  friends.  When 
I  was  in  trouble,  he  always  drew  closer  to  me; 
when  any  danger  threatened  me,  he  was  ready  to 
be  my  defender.  He  gave  me  the  true  exegesis 
of  the  inspired  words,  "A  friend  loveth  at  all 
times."  He  stood  every  test.  If  there  was  jar 
or  strain  at  any  point,  it  was  in  the  fact  that  while 
in  our  Church  fellowship  and  social  affinities  there 
was  cordial  agreement  in  general,  he  was  intimate 
with  some  persons  to  whom  I  could  not  get  close; 
while  some  of  my  friends  persisted  in  not  being 
very  friendly  toward  him.  Yes,  it  jarred  a  little, 
at  least  on  one  side:  the  brotherly  love  that  clasps 
the  brother  of  your  heart  would  also  clasp  all  that 
is  dear  to  him.  I  have  looked  into  the  faces  of 
good  and  true  men  that  I  knew  to  be  estranged 
from  each  other,  and  thanked  God  for  the  prom- 
ised revelations  and  readjustments  of  that  day 
when  we  shall  see  face  to  face  and  know  even  as  we 
are  known.  I  have  here  on  earth  coveted  the 
blessing  of  the  peacemaker,  and  essayed  to  be  a 
peacemaker.  I  have  not  always  succeeded:  my 
head  was  not  wise  enough,  my  touch  was  not  fine 
enough;  but  even  where  I  failed,  my  peaca  re- 
turned to  me.  This  digression  may  end  with  the 
declaration  that  the  truest  friendship  between  two 


150  Fifty  Years. 

human  souls  does  not  require  them  to  share  each 
other's  partialities  or  repulsions.  But  it  remains 
true  that  in  any  case  where  the  affection  is  deep 
and  true,  and  difference  jars  a  little. 

The  ozone  of  the  East  Tennessee  breezes  was 
in  Dr.  Hoss's  lungs;  the  tonic  of  its  chalybeate 
springs  was  in  his  blood.  Those  East  Tennesseans 
never  think  of  neutrality  when  a  fight  is  on.  They 
take  sides  at  once,  and  usually  for  life.  In  our 
Civil  War  they  were  divided  into  two  parties,  for 
and  against  the  Southern  Confederacy:  there  was 
no  third  party  thought  of.  Their  blood  was  shed 
freely  on  both  sides.  In  a  polemic  contest  they 
would  argue  as  long  as  they  could  articulate  with 
a  vehemence  not  always  measured  by  the  impor- 
tance of  the  question  at  issue.  Whether  it  was  the 
sovereignty  of  God  and  the  free  agency  of  man, 
or  the  mode  of  Christian  baptism,  or  the  number 
of  orders  in  the  Christian  ministry,  it  was  all  the 
same  to  these  men  of  the  hills:  they  ran  up  the 
red  flag  of  battle  with  no  thought  of  ever  pulling 
it  down.  In  a  political  campaign  among  them 
there  was  no  place  for  a  weakling  or  a  coward. 
The  brother  who  could  not  give  and  take  hard 
knocks  had  no  call  to  take  part  in  a  partisan  or 
sectarian    debate    in     East    Tennessee.     Andrew 


An  Expanded  East  Tennessean.      151 

Johnson  was  the  political  product  of  the  times 
and  of  the  land  to  which  he  belonged.  William 
G.  Brownlow  was  another.  Both  were  men  whose 
vocabulary  abounded  in  expletives  and  superla- 
tives, with  a  genius  for  invective  and  a  passion  for 
combat  that  suited  the  stormy  time  which  they 
and  such  as  they  helped  to  make  more  stormy. 
Johnson  became  President  of  the  United  States 
by  virtue  of  the  bellicose  vigor  that  was  in  him  and 
by  the  most  tragic  event  in  our  national  history — 
the  assassination  of  President  Lincoln.  Brown- 
low  became  Governor  of  Tennessee  at  a  time 
when  bitter  partisanship  was  at  a  premium,  and 
the  fires  of  sectional  strife  were  still  smoldering, 
and  conservatism  was  biding  its  own  good  time 
that  was  coming. 

Dr.  Hoss  passed  his  earlier  years  amid  these 
influences,  and  the  warrior  fires  that  were  in 
his  blood  were  kept  alive  in  one  way  or  an- 
other. On  the  maternal  side  he  was  the  grand- 
son of  Governor  John  Sevier,  the  only  man 
who  ever  met  Andrew  Jackson  with  equal  force 
of  will.  They  were  too  much  alike  to'  love  each 
other,  and  the  trend  of  contemporaneous  events 
made  them  rivals  rather  than  allies.  There  is  not 
a  living  man  or  boy  in  Tennessee  to-day  whose 


152  Fifty  Years. 

character  does  not  bear  something  of  the  impress 
of  these  fiery  chiefs.  If  in  Dr.  Hoss  there  was  a 
knightly  love  of  combat  which  was  his  from  in- 
heritance and  environment,  he  had  in  him  still 
more  largely  a  genius  for  loving  men  and  begetting 
love  from  them.  What  he  would  have  been  with- 
out religion,  a  wiser  man  than  I  would  be  needed 
to  tell.  But  the  Methodists  got  into  the  Hoss 
family,  and  where  they  go  they  carry  sweetness 
and  light — that  is,  if  they  are  of  the  genuine  sort. 
The  man  who  might  have  been  a  brilliant  and  bel- 
ligerent lawyer  or  politician  became  a  Methodist 
preacher,  with  a  message  of  love  from  God  to 
every  man  and  the  offer  of  hope  to  every  sinner 
he  could  reach.  It  was  certain  that  when  he  was 
once  converted  he  would  be  a  preacher.  There 
was  no  middle  course  for  him:  all  the  man  or  none 
is  the  law  for  all  such.  The  Methodist  preachers 
that  he  met  were  of  the  fervent  and  heroic  type. 
His  conversion  was  of  the  sort  that  melted  and 
remolded  him  at  a  white  heat.  He  was  only  six- 
teen years  old  when  he  began  to  preach — a  boy 
in  years  and  in  warmth  of  zeal,  impulsive,  hopeful, 
enthusiastic,  trusting  the  human  nature  which  he 
knew  mostly  on  its  better  side,  looking  for  the 
speedy  conversion  of  the  world  through  the  gos- 


An  Expanded  East  Tennessean.      153 

pel  which  he  had  found  to  be  the  power  of  God 
unto  his  own  salvation.  At  the  Ohio  Wesleyan 
University  he  was  sharpened  and  broadened  by 
taking  a  two-years'  course  of  study.  One  of  his 
fellow-students  was  J.  B.  Foraker,  afterwards 
United  States  Senator  from  Ohio.  They  met 
later  in  life  when  one  was  editor  of  the  Christian 
Advocate,  chief  organ  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church,  South,  and  the  other  a  United  States 
Senator.  The  Civil  War  had  made  a  gulf  between 
them,  but  time  and  heavenly  grace  had  bridged  it. 
Dr.  Hoss's  schooling  in  Ohio  gave  him  per- 
haps something  more  of  alertness,  or  what  in  the 
West  is  called  "snap,"  and  it  also  gave  him  a 
clearer  perception  both  of  the  strong  and  weak 
points  of  Northern  life — and  so  it  made  him  at  the 
same  time  a  broader  man  on  sectional  lines  and 
a  more  skillful  swordsman  in  a  sectional  contest. 
He  was  one  of  many  Southerners  who  in  North- 
ern schools  obtained  the  intellectual  equipment 
that  made  them  the  chosen  champions  of  South- 
ern thought.  John  C.  Calhoun  was  an  alumnus 
of  Yale  College.  His  name  seems  to  glow  as  I 
write  it  on  this  page.  He  will  be  known  in  com- 
ing generations  as  the  great  defender  of  minority 
rights,  and  he  will  look  larger  and  grander  as  the 


154  Fifty  Years. 

perspective  increases.  No  stain  of  insincerity  or 
dishonor  rests  upon  his  fame.  The  minority  to 
which  he  belonged  is  as  truly  glorified  by  his  gen- 
ius as  was  the  Lost  Cause  by  the  valor  of  Lee. 
Alexander  H.  Stephens  was  another  Southern 
man  whose  training  in  a  Northern  school  fur- 
nished him  for  brilliant  service  to  his  section  in 
that  troublous  time  when  the  consequences  of  the 
well-meant  blunders  of  several  generations  had  to 
be  met  and  atoned  for  by  one.  The  keen  blades 
so  skillfully  wielded  by  these  men  in  defense  of 
the  South  were  whetted  on  the  other  side  of  Ma- 
son  and  L)ixon's  line.  It  is  known  to  the  reader 
that  Mr.  Stephens  was  Vice  President  of  the 
Southern  Confederacy,  and  that  he  was  educated 
at  Princeton  with  a  view  to  the  ministry  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church.  But  it  was  not  so  foreor- 
dained: he  became  a  lawyer,  a  politician,  and  a 
statesman.  His  physical  frame  was  perhaps  the 
slightest  that  ever  fed  such  a  brain.  Like  Cal- 
houn, Stephens  passed  through  the  fires  of  parti- 
san and  revolutionary  conflict  with  a  stainless  reo 
ord.  * 

The  short,  stoutly-built,  close-knit,  heavy-mus- 
cled frame,  the  capacious  lungs,  the  huge  crani- 
um, high  forehead,  and  big  back-head,  the  bril- 


An  Expanded  East  Tennessean.      155 

liant  pair  of  eyes  that  could  flash  electric  fire  in  a 
debate  and  melt  into  a  tenderness  all  the  more  ir- 
resistible because  it  was  the  tenderness  of  a  strong, 
heroic  soul — this  is  my  friend:  the  editor  whose 
learning  enriched  every  topic  he  touched,  whose 
courage  was  equal  to  any  crisis;  the  preacher  whose 
exegetical  resources  were  a  homiletical  gold  mine, 
whose  practical  expositions  of  divine  truth  made 
his  hearers  feel  the  pressure  of  obligation  in  the 
present  tense  and  anticipate  the  solemnity  of  the 
final  assize;  the  teacher  whose  touch  stimulated 
into  delighted  activity  all  the  responsive  faculties 
of  his  pupils;  the  author  whose  books  showed  that 
he  had  drunk  deeply  from  the  hidden  springs  of 
inspiration,  and  that  he  had  climbed  the  heights 
trod  only  by  the  few  that  truly  think  and  pray; 
the  man  of  affairs  who  knew  Church  law  by  heart 
and  could  count  money;  the  kinsman  and  friend 
whose  devotion  stood  every  test  and  was  equal 
to  any  draft;  the  man  of  God  who  walked  in  the 
Master's  footsteps  and  was  found  where  duty 
called — at  the  front,  or  where  a  pitying  heart  or 
helping  hand  was  needed  anywhere  within  his 
reach — this  was  my  friend,  Dr.  E.  Embree  Hoss. 
His  faults — doubtless  he  had  them,  but  they  were 
lost  from  my  sight.     A  perfect  man?     No:  only 


156  Fifty  Years. 

One  perfect  man  has  walked  here  among  men — 
and  He  was  crucified  nearly  two  thousand  years 
ago. 

[In  reading  the  proof  sheets  of  this  sketch  of 
my  friend  and  brother,  I  have  a  fresh  realization 
of  the  fact  that  this  last  performance  of  mine  in 
the  line  of  bookmaking  has  swung  clear  out  of  the 
sphere  of  conventionality,  and  takes  liberties  that 
are  unusual  with  men  and  things.  It  is  too  late 
now  to  change  anything  by  subtraction,  addition, 
or  otherwise] 


THE  CANING  I  GOT  IN  CALI- 
FORNIA. 

(•57) 


The  Caning  I  Got  in  California. 

"That  is  a  shiny  cane  for  you,  a  Methodist 
preacher,  to  carry." 

This  has  been  said  to  me  many  times  both  be- 
fore and  since  I  left  California  at  the  call  of  the 
Church.  Usually  it  was  said  rather  in  a  spirit  of 
good-natured  badinage,  but  candor  compels  me 
to  make  the  admission  that  more  than  once  it  was 
meant  in  sober  earnest  by  friendly  and  scrupulous 
brethren.  And  I  may  also  here  make  the  con- 
fession that  at  times  I  have  had  some  misgivings 
myself  as  to  whether  it  was  altogether  proper 
that  a  Methodist  preacher  should  carry  a  gold- 
headed  cane.  My  scruples  have  not  been  strong 
enough  to  cause  me  to  discard  the  cane  with  its 
shiny  head,  but  I  have  thought  it  well  to  offer  a 
word  of  explanation  to  inquisitive  persons  on  both 
sides  of  the  continent. 

One  of  the  General  Rules  of  my  Church  for- 
bids "the  putting  on  of  gold  and  costly  apparel." 
There  was  a  time  when  this  rule  was  construed 
more  strictly  than  it  is  now.  When  I  was  sup- 
plying  the   pulpit   of  a  congregation   of  colored 

(■59) 


160  Fifty  Years. 

Methodists  in  Georgia,  a  zealous  young  minister 
who  was  a  good  speaker  took  my  place  at  a  Sun- 
day morning  service.  Unfortunately  his  plain 
silver  watch  was  out  of  order,  and  he  had  bor- 
rowed from  a  friend  another  which  happened  to  be 
made  of  gold,  with  a  rather  heavy  and  showy  chain 
of  the  same  metal  attached.  That  watch  and  chain 
ruined  that  service.  The  visiting  preacher  no- 
ticed that  his  hearers  were  strangely  unresponsive; 
during  the  delivery  of  his  entire  discourse  there 
was  not  the  least  sign  or  sound  of  approval. 
When  he  had  finished  an  aged  colored  preacher, 
the  leader  of  that  flock,  arose  frowning  ominously, 
and  after  a  short  but  impressive  pause,  every  eye 
and  ear  attent,  said: 

"I  want  ter  call  yo'  attention  to  what  de  Dis- 
cipline says  about  w'arin'  of  gol'  an'  cos'ly  'parel 
[quoting  the  words].  Dat's  de  law  of  de  Church, 
an'  dat's  de  teachin'  of  de  Bible.  In  heaven  gol' 
is  plenty  as  rocks,  de  streets  is  all  paved  wid  it. 
But  de  gol'  of  dis  world  will  perish;  it  will  be  burnt 
up  in  de  fires  of  de  las'  day,  and  [here  he  cast  his 
glance  up  to  the  pulpit  where  sat  the  visiting 
preacher]  dem  dat  w'ars  it  zvill  be  burnt  up  wid  it." 

Many  and  emphatic  were  the  approving  re- 
sponses of  the  congregation.     When  I  next  met 


The  Caning  I  Got  in  California.      161 

the  official  members  of  the  church,  I  was  asked  by 
this  aged  leader: 

"Who's  dat  you  sent  here  to  preach,  a  man 
standin'  in  de  pulpit  kivered  all  over  wid  gol'?" 

I  explained  meekly  that  it  was  a  borrowed 
watch,  assuring  him  that  the  one  owned  and  usu- 
ally worn  by  the  young  brother  was  a  plain  ortho- 
dox silver  timepiece. 

"What  did  he  want  to  preach  wid  a  watch  for, 
any  way?  Do  you  s'pose  de  Lord  Jesus  Christ  ever 
preached  wid  a  watch?"  was  his  indignant  reply. 

I  gave  it  up.  My  young  friend  with  the  bor- 
rowed watch  was  not  acceptable  to  that  congre- 
gation— and  they  saw  him  not  again. 

I  again  take  up  my  cane.  This  is  the  story. 
At  the  session  of  the  Pacific  Annual  Conference 
held  in  the  city  of  Sacramento  in  1859,  in  the  ex- 
amination of  character  my  name  was  called — I  was 
then  editor  and  publisher  of  the  Pacific  Methodist, 
the  Conference  organ. 

"O.  P.  Fitzgerald — is  there  anything  against 
him?"  asked  the  presiding  bishop;  and  the  usual 
answer  was  taken  for  granted,  "Nothing  against 
him,"  when  the  Rev.  B.  R.  Johnson,  who  was  the 
presiding  elder  of  the  Petaluma  District — "Uncle 
Ben,"  as  he  was  called  in  Missouri  and  California 
11 


162  Fifty  Years. 

— arose,  and  with  a  grave  face  and  steady  voice 
said: 

"Yes,  there  is  something  against  Brother  Fitz- 
gerald, and  it  becomes  my  duty  to  tell  what 
it  is." 

There  was  a  perceptible  buzz  at  this  unexpected 
turn  things  had  taken.  I  was  younger  then  than 
I  am  at  this  writing,  and  being  unconscious  of 
anything  wrong  in  my  record,  it  was  with  rising 
pugnacity  that  I  waited  to  hear  whereof  I  was  ac- 
cused. 

"Yes,  there  are  charges  against  Brother  Fitz- 
gerald," continued  Uncle  Ben  in  the  same  em- 
phatic manner;  "he  is  charged  with  being  editor 
and  publisher  of  the  best  religious  newspaper  on 
the  Pacific  coast" — et  cetera,  et  cetera,  et  cetera, 
with  many  kind  allusions  to  my  work  and  my- 
self personally,  which  I  will  omit,  closing  with  the 
remark,  "For  all  of  which  his  friends  in  the  Peta- 
luma  District  think  he  deserves  a  caning.  Stand 
up  and  take  it." 

So  saying,  he  handed  me  this  gold-headed  cane 
amid  the  lively  responses  of  the  brethren  and 
friendly  visitors.  I  was  not  displeased,  but  I  was 
embarrassed  by  the  turn  the  matter  had  taken. 
My   heart   was   touched,   and  it  is  likely   that    I 


The  Caning  I  Got  in  California.       163 

showed  that  it  was  so.     In  reply  I  said  something 
like  this: 

"You  have  taken  me  by  surprise.  My  heart  is 
moved,  and  you,  Brother  Johnson,  and  those  you 
represent  in  making  this  gift,  will  accept  the  thanks 
I  am  unable  to  express  in  suitable  words.  This 
is  a  beautiful  production  of  California  art — this 
cane  with  its  head  of  purest  California  gold  set 
with  crystal  quartz  veined  with  the  same  precious 
metal,  designed  with  exquisite  taste  and  highly 
polished  by  a  lapidary  who  is  master  of  his  craft. 
For  a  plain  man  like  me  it  is  a  costly  gift.  I  value 
it  highly,  not  so  much  for  the  gold  that  it  con- 
tains, bur  for  that  which  gold  cannot  buy,  the  most 
precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed  in  this  earthly 
life — the  good  will  of  true  friends,  the  friendship 
that  brightens  our  lot  in  prosperity  and  is  stead- 
fast and  sweetest  in  adversity.  This  friendship, 
hallowed  by  the  love  of  God,  will  survive  the  final 
judgment,  when  the  elements  themselves  shall 
melt  with  fervent  heat,  and  the  dead,  small  and 
great,  stand  before  God.  When  I  lean  on  this 
cane  in  the  sunset  of  my  life,  when  these  locks  are 
white  and  thinned  by  time,  and  this  frame  is  weak 
and  worn,  I  shall  feel  in  the  depths  of  my  soul  that 
I  am  not  leaning  on  so  much  wood  and  metal, 


164  Fifty  Years. 

but  on  the  strong  arms  and  warm  hearts  of  the 
givers." 

That  time  has  come.  My  California  cane  sup- 
ports my  steps  now  as  with  failing  bodily  strength 
I  approach  nearer  and  still  nearer  to  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  where  I  hope  to  be  supported  by  the 
rod  and  the  staff  of  which  David  sings  in  the 
twenty-third  Psalm.  Its  music,  solemn  as  death, 
yet  sweet  as  heaven,  is  in  my  soul  as  I  trace  these 
closing  words. 

The  incident  comes  back  to  me  and  the  faces  are 
before  my  vision  as  I  write.  Among  them  is  one 
that  holds  my  gaze — that  of  Dr.  J.  C.  Simmons, 
the  patriarch  of  the  Pacific  Conference.  He  knows 
the  Bible  by  heart,  and  with  a  heart  of  love  and 
tongue  of  fire  has  preached  the  gospel  of  Christ 
for  fifty  years.  There  he  sits  with  his  white  hair, 
features  as  irregular  as  a  foothill  range  in  California, 
and  as  benignant  as  a  midsummer  sunrise  on  the 
summit  of  Mount  Shasta.  We  may  hope  to  meet 
one  another  again  Where  we  shall  see  the  King  in 
his  beauty — all  of  us. 


WITH  THE  IRISH. 

('65) 


With  the  Irish. 

Most  of  the  Irish  I  met  in  the  early  part  of  my 
life  were  men  who  had  a  fondness  for  righting,  and 
were  not  easily  beaten  in  fair  combat.  In  politics 
they  voted  a  straight  ticket,  and  made  their  full 
share  of  the  noise  of  political  campaigns.  The  fact 
that  General  Andrew  Jackson  was  of  Irish  descent 
glorified  the  whole  Irish  people  in  my  estimation. 
The  tradition  that  our  branch  of  the  Fitzgeralds 
belonged  to  the  Leinster  stock,  of  which  a  martyr- 
hero  was  the  chief,  intensified  this  sentiment  in  my 
boyish  heart.  I  have  never  lost  it.  My  old  Irish 
schoolmaster,  Joseph  O'Brien,  seemed  to  me  a 
marvel  of  learning — and  so  he  was.  He  knew  most 
of  the  dead  languages,  so  called.  He  spoke  the 
most  perfect  English,  plus  the  brogue  that  made 
it  more  emphatic  and  melodious.  He  knew  the 
Latin  poets  by  heart,  and  quoted  the  British  poets 
as  readily  with  rare  facility  and  felicity.  His 
knowledge  of  natural  history  was  full  and  exact: 
he  knew  it  as  a  science.  The  "copies"  he  set  for 
his  pupils  in  their  writing-books  were  almost  in- 
variably striking  apothegms  from  the  sages  or  ex- 

(167) 


168  Fifty  Years. 

quisite  touches  from  the  poets  of  different  tongues 
and  times,  ranging  all  the  way  from  a  proverb  of 
Solomon  to  a  line  from  Shakespeare  or  Milton.  He 
was  a  terror  to  dullards  or  shirkers  in  the  school- 
room. When  he  was  converted  among  the  Metho- 
dists at  the  old  Shady  Grove  camp  meeting,  great 
was  his  and  their  joy.  He  made  a  good  Metho- 
dist: his  end  was  peace.  He  sleeps  under  the  oaks 
in  that  old  Shady  Grove  churchyard.  Blessings 
on  his  memory!  When  I  meet  him  face  to  face 
in  the  world  of  spirits,  I  would  be  glad  to  express 
to  him  in  person  the  gratitude  that  glows  in  my 
heart  as  I  pen  these  reminiscences  of  this  first 
Irishman  who  touched  my  life  for  good. 

The  next  Irishman  that  comes  before  my  men- 
tal vision  in  these  backward  glances  is  that  of  a 
physician  who  attended  me  in  a  long  sickness.  He 
was  a  quiet,  scholarly  man.  His  face  had  in  its 
expression  the  strength  and  kindliness  that  suit 
all  doctors.  The  public,  so  called — that  is,  the 
average  men  and  women — have  a  way  of  lionizing 
the  surgeons  who  are  both  rough  and  ready.  He- 
roic remedies  in  therapeutics  and  heroic  operators 
in  surgery  are  still  in  fashion  in  Christian  lands, 
so  called.  After  recovering  from  my  sickness  I 
learned  that  my  Irish  doctor  was  a  Roman  Catho- 


With  the  Irish.  169 

lie — a  fact  which  he  had  never  hinted  to  his  grate- 
ful patient.  But  it  gave  me  a  very  distinct  impres- 
sion that  a  man  might  be  a  Roman  Catholic  and 
at  the  same  time  a  follower  of  Him  who  called 
Luke,  "the  beloved  physician,"  to  be  one  of  the 
Twelve.  Both  a  Methodist  and  a  Romanist  doc- 
tor prescribed  for  me  in  that  sickness,  and  were 
agreed  as  to  what  their  patient  needed  to  cure  his 
bodily  ailment.  Their  names  need  not  be  written 
here:  both  are  written,  I  trust,  in  the  Book  of  Life. 
By  degrees  I  became  acquainted  with  the  Roman 
Catholic  clergy.  I  found  them,  as  I  found  the 
clergy  of  other  communions,  differing  one  from 
another  in  gifts  and  graces — good,  better,  best; 
less  good,  no  good,  bad.  The  most  of  them  were 
good  men,  I  doubt  not.  Now  and  then  one  of 
them  proved  himself  to  be  an  apostate;  and  in  such 
cases  some  of  our  people  were  about  as  fair  in  their 
judgments  as  is  common  with  partisans  or  bigots 
wherever  found — attributing  the  lapse  of  an  indi- 
vidual from  virtue  to  the  inherent  and  ineradicable 
viciousness  of  the  party  or  sect  to  which  he  be- 
longed. Judged  by  this  rule,  there  is  not  a 
Church,  a  party  organization,  a  school  of  ethics, 
or  a  family  connection  that  would  be  able  to  stand. 
That  the  Roman  Catholics  have  so  often  done  sim- 


170  Fifty  Years. 

ilar  injustice  in  dealing  with  other  religious  bodies 
does  not  alter  the  principle  herein  involved.  Two 
wrongs  do  not  make  a  right.  Evil  cannot  be  over- 
come with  evil.  These  truisms  are  eternally  true. 
The  visible  unity  of  Christ's  Church  will  not  come 
in  this  way.  But  it  will  come.  "There  will  be  one 
fold  and  one  shepherd."  Some  of  these  Irish 
Catholic  priests  that  I  have  known  were  ascetics, 
austere  and  rigid;  others,  a  few  here  and  there, 
were  by  visible  tokens  rather  over-jolly,  leaning 
toward  the  opposite  extreme;  others,  not  a  few, 
went  about  doing  good,  placing  their  feet  where 
they  saw  the  footprints  of  their  Lord. 

These  Irish  priests  were  mostly  good  talkers  in 
the  pulpit  and  out  of  it.  They  were  not  disposed 
to  neutrality  in  any  contest  going  on  around  them. 
They  were  ready  to  expend  their  enthusiasm,  their 
eloquence,  their  money,  and  even  their  lives  for  any 
cause  that  was  dear  to  them  or  a  friend  they  loved. 
The  old  adage  applies  here:  "Like  priest,  like  peo- 
ple." No  truer  Methodists  have  I  ever  met  than 
those  of  Irish  blood.  The  exceptions  are  about 
as  numerous  as  you  would  find  in  other  nationali- 
ties: the  same  human  nature  being  in  all  sorts  of 
folk. 

The  Irish  women  I  have  met  might  be  described 


With  the  Irish.  171 

in  general  terms  in  the  same  words  which  I  have 
applied  to  Irish  men.  On  the  one  hand,  they  are 
good,  better,  gnd  best;  and  on  the  other  hand,  they 
are  less  good,  no  good  at  all,  and  bad.  I  will  add 
here  another  observation  which  will  not  be  dis- 
puted by  my  readers  of  either  sex,  namely:  The 
best  Irish  women  are  better  than  the  best  Irish 
men;  and  the  worst  Irish  women  are  worse  than 
the  worst  Irish  men — so  at  least  they  seem  to  me. 
The  spotless  purity,  the  never-tiring  patience,  the 
limitless  self-sacrifice  of  Irish  women  show  woman- 
hood at  its  best  in  their  homes.  They  have  the 
faith  that  believeth  all  things,  endureth  all  things, 
and  hopeth  all  things,  transfiguring  the  lives  and 
homes  of  their  lowliest  and  highest  alike  with  the 
glory  of  Bethlehem,  Gethsemane,  and  Calvary. 
The  worst  of  the  Irish  women — stop,  my  heart 
would  fail  me  in  any  attempt  to  tell  how  deep  is 
the  fall  and  how  utter  the  degradation  of  any  wom- 
an, whether  Irish  or  what  not,  who  sinks  into  sin 
unchecked  and  is  the  slave  of  passion  uncontrolled. 
The  Irish  women  who  compose  the  religious  orders 
of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  have  clone  a  blessed 
work  in  the  name  of  the  pitying  Christ  in  all  the 
cities  of  America  where  sickness,  sorrow,  pain,  and 
death  have  called  for  ministrations  of  mercy  and 


172  Fifty  Years. 

help  such  as  only  Christian  women  can  bestow.  I 
hold  firmly  and  gratefully  to  my  lifelong  assurance 
that  Christian  homes  are  the  holiest  places  on 
earth,  and  that  wifehood  and  motherhood  are  the 
most  sacred  and  loftiest  functions  of  Christian 
womanhood.  But  should  I  reach  heaven  and  not 
meet  there  the  Sisters  of  Mercy  and  the  Sisters  of 
Charity  whom  I  have  met  in  the  hovels  of  want, 
the  abodes  of  sickness,  and  the  chambers  of  death 
— yes,  I  will  say  it — should  I  reach  another  world 
called  heaven,  and  miss  there  the  faces  of  these 
"Sisters,"  I  should  feel  that  I  was  in  the  wrong 
place.  (As  I  lift  my  eyes  from  this  page  a  woman's 
face  meets  my  gaze,  a  woman  that  wore  no  uniform 
as  a  member  of  any  "order"  or  "society"  here  on 
earth,  but  who  for  nearly  fifty  years  has  been  a  liv- 
ing epistle  demonstrating  to  me  the  truth  as  the 
truth  is  in  Jesus.)  God  pity  the  Irish  women  who 
go  wrong! — they  stray  so  far!  God  bless  the  Irish 
women  who  follow  their  Master  in  paths  of  holy 
service  on  their  way  to  the  city  of  God,  where  they 
will  join  their  songs  with  the  songs  of  the  white- 
robed  multitude  that  no  man  can  number,  gath- 
ered out  of  every  kindred,  tongue,  tribe,  and  peo- 
ple. The  Irish  saints  will  be  among  that  multi- 
tude.    And  if  the  racial  peculiarities  of  this  life  on 


With  the  Irish.  173 

earth  are  carried  to  that  world  to  come,  we  may  be 
sure  that  the  presence  of  the  Irish  contingent  will 
not  lessen  the  depth  of  their  joy  nor  lower  the  high 
halleluiahs  of  their  song. 

The  Irish  race  are  endowed  with  eloquence,  cour- 
age, enthusiasm,  reverence,  and  sensibility.  These 
qualities  have  been  exhibited  preeminently  in  their 
past  history.  The  present  outlook  for  the  race  is 
brightening.  The  signs  point  in  the  direction  of 
political  solidarity.  In  the  battles  yet  to  be  fought 
the  Irish  will  be  found  on  the  firing  line.  The 
word  of  God  promises  the  coming  of  the  day  when 
nothing  shall  hurt  or  destroy  in  all  the  earth, 
when  Jesus  shall  reign  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of 
lords.  Good  Irishmen  are  praying  and  working 
to  hasten  its  coming.  My  long-coveted  trip  to  the 
old  country  still  waits. 


A  BOSTON  MORNING  CALL. 

('75) 


A  Boston  Morning  Call. 

It  was  easy  to  think  of  the  city  of  God  where 
there  is  no  night  of  pain  or  grief  or  death  that  Au- 
gust morning  in  1901  when  I  went  out  to  visit 
Bishop  Foster  at  his  home  in  Newton  Center,  near 
Boston.  The  heated  spell  was  broken,  the  copi- 
ous rains  had  washed  the  face  of  the  city,  suburbs, 
fields,  and  gardens;  the  sun  was  unclouded,  and 
the  breeze  was  brisk  and  bracing.  My  traveling 
companion  was  that  one  person  whose  presence 
has  made  all  bright  things  brighter  and  all  burdens 
easier  to  be  borne  in  this  world  for  so  many  gracious 
years. 

My  meeting  with  the  bishop  was  not  cold  or 
formal.  As  I  grasped  his  hand  it  was  a  source  of 
gratification  to  me  to  see  that  it  was  the  same 
Bishop  Foster  who  stood  before  me — the  Bishop 
Foster  I  had  loved  ever  since  I  first  read  his  book 
on  "Christian  Purity."  Both  of  us  were  younger 
and  stronger  then  than  we  are  now.  The  strong, 
kindly  face,  the  noble  head  with  the  white  hair  a 
little  thinner,  the  bright  dark  eyes  that  still  melt 
with  tenderness  if  they  do  not  flash  with  all  of  the 
i2  (177) 


178  Fifty  Years. 

old-time  brilliancy  of  the  pulpit  orator  whom  thou- 
sands heard  with  delight  and  remember  gratefully 
— yes,  though  weak  and  worn  and  weary  and  wait- 
ing, this  is  the  same  Bishop  Foster  whose  hand 
held  mine  in  a  brotherly  clasp. 

"I  have  come  to  bring  you  a  message — not  my 
message,  but  a  message  from  the  Lord,"  I  said  to 
him:  "  'All  things  work  together  for  good  to  them 
that  love  God.'  You  know  by  whom  it  was  spoken 
and  where  it  is  recorded  in  the  eighth  chapter  of 
the  Epistle  to  the  Romans.  It  means  just  what 
is  said:  'all  things'  means  all  things,  and  in  the  pres- 
ent tense." 

"Blessed  be  God,  his  word  is  true,"  said  the  patri- 
arch with  bowed  head.  "We  cannot  understand 
such  a  saying  now,  it  is  too  deep  for  us,  but  we  can 
trust  our  Lord.     He  is  the  Head." 

The  tone  of  his  voice  and  the  look  on  his  face 
as  he  pronounced  these  four  weighty  words,  "He 
is  the  Head,"  cannot  be  put  on  paper;  but  they  ex- 
pressed the  faith  that  holds  its  grip  and  the  hope 
that  maketh  not  ashamed.  Not  far  off  is  also  the 
joy  that  is  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory. 

All  that  passed  during  this  brief  yet  gracious  in- 
terview cannot  be  recited  here.  For  several  years 
Bishop  Foster  has  been  disabled  by  bodily  infirm- 


A  Boston  Morning  Call.  179 

ity.  He  is  now  eighty-two  years  old.  He  has 
been  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ  sixty-five  years,  having  begun  at  the  age  of 
seventeen.  He  has  suffered  much.  With  all  hu- 
mility and  in  sincere  brotherly  kindness  I  gave  him 
the  favorite  prescription  that  I  have  tried  to  use 
during  these  last  years  of  my  own  physical  suffer- 
ing: Three  parts  of  patience,  and  one  more  part  of 
patience — four-thirds,  if  that  were  an  allowable 
mathematical  expression.  We  who  have  preached 
patience  to  others  have  gracious  opportunity  given 
us  to  practice  what  we  preach — and  here  is  one  of 
the  things  that  works  together  with  other  things 
for  our  good. 

Kneeling  side  by  side,  we  prayed  together.  Our 
prayer  was  a  prayer  of  thanksgiving — thanksgiv- 
ing for  unfailing  mercies  going  back,  back  through 
all  our  past  lives,  thanksgiving  also  for  the  hope 
that  the  grace  that  hath  brought  us  safe  thus  far 
will  bring  us  home  at  last.  Surely  the  Lord  was 
there,  and  we  knew  it. 

"Give  my  love  to  the  brethren,"  said  the  bishop 
as  we  were  taking  our  farewell — meaning  by  the 
"brethren"  the  million  and  a  half  of  Southern 
Methodists  whose  love  for  him  antedates  the 
troubles  of  later  times,  and  who  believe  that  never 


180  Fifty  Years. 

for  one  moment  has  he  lost  the  fraternal  heart- 
beat that  is  in  us  all  now — thanks  be  to  God! 
There  was  a  solemnity  and  touching  pathos  when, 
in  parting,  we  spoke  of  meeting  again,  he  pointed 
upward  with  a  wistful  look  in  his  eyes  that  seemed 
to  express  what  was  felt  by  Paul,  the  aged  apostle, 
when  he  said  that  it  was  "far  better  to  depart  and  be 
with  Christ."  This  is  the  order  of  God's  dealing 
with  us:  Patience  under  suffering  now;  glory  ever- 
lasting to  follow.  All  things  do  work  together  for 
good. 


LE  CONTE. 

(181) 


Le  Conte. 

The  peculiar  troubles  of  the  Reconstruction 
period  that  lost  the  Le  Conte  brothers  to  the 
South  brought  gain  and  gladness  to  California. 
In  1867  Professor  Louis  Agassiz,  of  Harvard  Uni- 
versity, wrote  to  me  at  San  Francisco,  saying  that 
if  the  Californians  would  act  promptly  they  could 
secure  the  services  of  the  brothers  John  and  Joseph 
Le  Conte  for  their  new  university  just  starting. 
"Their  equals  in  their  respective  chairs  would  be 
hard  to  find/'  said  Agassiz,  together  with  other 
things  in  the  same  spirit.  They  were  written  to  at 
once,  and  invited  to  come  on  specified  conditions. 
Their  acceptance  was  prompt,  and  in  a  little  while 
they  were  at  their  posts  and  at  work.  The  senior 
brother,  John,  in  deference  to  his  age  and  expe- 
rience, was  made  the  first  provisional  president  of 
the  university.  He  modestly  and  wisely  preferred 
the  duties  of  his  professorship,  and  though  he  did 
good  work  in  the  presidency  he  was  glad  at  the 
first  opportunity  to  turn  over  its  honors  and  toils 
to  another. 

The    recent    death    of    Dr.    Joseph    Le    Conte 

(183) 


184  Fifty  Years. 

brought  him  vividly  before  me  as  I  knew  him. 
The  Californians — especially  young  California — 
fell  in  love  with  him  at  the  start  and  never  fell  out. 
A  striking  illustration  of  this  fact  took  place  at  San 
Diego  a  few  years  ago.  The  State  Teachers'  In- 
stitute was  in  session  there  at  the  time  of  my  visit, 
and  as  an  old  Californian  and  former  superintend- 
end  of  public  instruction,  I  was  kindly  invited  to 
visit  the  body.  On  being  introduced  I  made  a 
brief  address,  acknowledging  gratefully  the  cour- 
tesy shown  me,  and  indulged  in  some  reminis- 
cences of  earlier  times  and  congratulations  on  the 
then  hopeful  condition  and  prospects  of  the  uni- 
versity. During  my  brief  talk  I  made  incidental 
mention  of  the  name  of  Dr.  Joseph  Le  Conte — 
whereupon  the  institute  exploded  with  enthusiasm. 
The  members  of  the  body  went  wild  after  a  schol- 
arly, occidental  fashion;  they  stamped  their  feet, 
they  clapped  their  hands,  they  waved  their  hats, 
and  cheered  and  cheered  again. 

The  last  time  I  met  Dr.  Le  Conte  was  at  a  Sun- 
day morning  service  in  the  little  church  near  Berke- 
ley. I  had  discoursed  in  my  own  way  on  a  favor- 
ite subject — the  imperishability  of  all  the  acqui- 
sitions of  a  human  soul  on  earth  when  hallowed 
by  the  blessing  of  God — and  had  reasonable  "lib- 


Le  Conte.  185 

erty,"  as  the  fathers  used  to  say.  At  the  close  of 
the  service  Dr.  Le  Conte,  whose  presence  I  had 
not  perceived,  came  forward,  and,  grasping  my 
hand  across  the  chancel,  said  with  signs  of  deep 
feeling:  "I  am  an  evolutionist,  but  a  Christian  ev- 
olutionist." That  is  what  he  was.  He  believed 
that  evolution  was  the  method,  and  that  God  was 
the  Creator  and  Governor  of  this  world  and  all 
worlds.  On  another  occasion  he  said  to  me: 
"Change  the  days  into  periods  in  the  opening 
chapter  of  Genesis,  and  a  congress  of  all  the  scien- 
tists in  the  world  could  not  change  a  word  for  the 
better."  He  was  a  communicant  of  the  Presby- 
terian Church.  In  his  devoutness,  simplicity,  and 
benignity  he  trod  in  the  footsteps  of  the  Master 
whose  he  was  and  whom  he  served.  He  realized 
the  limitations  of  the  human  intellect  here  on 
earth,  but  he  was  no  agnostic  in  the  sense  in  which 
that  word  is  often  used  as  a  disguise  for  blamable 
ignorance  and  an  excuse  for  neglect  of  duty.  He 
was  no  materialist  in  the  sense  in  which  that  word 
is  used  by  some  who  affect  the  proud  humility  of 
atheism,  and  glory  in  the  shame  of  so  losing  them- 
selves in  second  causes  as  to  forget  or  deny  the 
Great  First  Cause.  He  was  not  one  of  the  unde- 
vout  scientists  who  exhibit  that  sort  of  madness. 


1 86  Fifty  Years. 

He  was  as  grand  as  Mount  Shasta,  and  as  benig- 
nant as  the  sunshine  on  the  California  hills  in  its 
season.  It  was  fitting  that  he  should  die  where  he 
did — amid  the  beauties  and  wonders  of  the  Yo- 
semite  Valley.  He  loved  Nature  in  all  her  moods; 
he  caught  the  whisper  of  her  secrets,  and  then  in 
his  own  matchless  way  expounded  them  to  his  fel- 
lows. That  his  eyes  have  opened  upon  the  inef- 
fable beauty  and  sublimer  wonders  of  the  world  of 
spirits,  I  reverently  believe.  The  record  he  made 
and  the  influence  that  will  follow  from  his  life  and 
his  teaching  will  be  an  imperishable  part  of  the  en- 
dowment of  the  University  of  California.  The 
young  men  of  his  generation  took  knowledge  of 
him  that  he  had  been  with  Jesus,  and  it  was  im- 
possible for  them  ever  after  to  be  what  they  pre- 
viously were  or  to  move  on  their  former  plane. 
The  familiar  thought  here  comes  to  me  again: 
What  a  blessed  sphere  of  being  will  be  that  where 
such  spirits  as  that  of  Le  Conte  are  gathering! 
The  certainty  and  amplitude  of  their  knowledge 
will  leave  nothing  to  be  desired.  The  promise  is, 
that  they  shall  be  satisfied  when  they  awake  in  the 
likeness  of  their  Lord.  Satisfied — that  is  a  very 
comprehensive  word.  It  implies  three  things  at 
least:  First,  exemption  from  weakness;  sown  in 


Le  Conte.  187 

weakness,  the  spiritual  body  is  raised  in  power. 
Second,  exemption  from  liability  to  sin;  the  image 
of  Christ  means  holiness  beyond  a  doubt  and  be- 
yond the  danger  of  relapse.  Third,  exemption 
from  any  confusion  or  misgiving  concerning  the 
wisdom  and  goodness  of  God  in  his  dealings  with 
us  as  moral  agents.  We  shall  be  satisfied  that  no 
soul  was  ever  punished  for  any  sin  that  was  not 
voluntary.  No  man  will  be  dissatisfied  there,  be- 
cause all  will  see  clearly  what  is  affirmed  explicitly 
in  the  word  of  God,  that  no  man  is  ruined  by  any  sin 
save  his  own.  Power  without  weakness,  knowl- 
edge without  ignorance,  holiness  without  sin — no 
wonder  such  an  inheritance  satisfies.  The  wonder 
is,  that  with  such  a  destiny  revealed  as  a  possibility, 
anybody  should  be  satisfied  to  imperil  it  by  the  de- 
lay of  a  single  day.  If  I  knew  what  Joseph  Le 
Conte  first  saw,  and  what  he  first  thought,  when 
after  closing  his  eyes  in  the  Yosemite  Valley  he 
awoke  in  the  likeness  of  his  Lord — if  I  knew  what 
he  knows,  I  would  tell  it  to  the  reader.  But  as  he 
has  not  come  back  with  the  message,  we  will  do  as 
he  did:  we  will  trust  the  love  that  we  can  feel,  and 
wait  for  the  light  that  is  coming. 


THE  NIGHT  I  SAW  AND  HEARD 
EDGAR  ALLAN  POE. 

(189) 


The  Night  I  Saw  and  Heard  Edgar  Allan 
Poe. 

The  sad  face  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  would  brighten 
for  at  least  one  brief  moment  could  he  see  this  Vir- 
ginia edition  of  his  works.  I  scarcely  know  what 
word  to  use  in  describing  it.  The  poet  himself 
might  find  a  single  descriptive  unique  enough  to 
fit.  But  he  is  elsewhere  and  otherwise  employed. 
So  it  is  left  to  some  of  us  living  men  who,  though 
we  may  lack  his  genius,  are  not  wholly  lacking  in 
a  perception  of  beauty,  to  thank  Professor  James 
A.  Harrison,  the  editor,  together  with  the  pub- 
lishers, for  these  volumes — twenty-eight  in  num- 
ber— in  which  are  printed,  in  a  form  so  nearly  per- 
fect, the  works  of  a  literary  genius  so  weird  and 
wonderful  that  he  almost  makes  a  class  by  him- 
self. 

The  publication  of  this  edition  of  Poe's  works  is 
one  of  the  many  signs  of  a  revival  of  interest  in  him 
as  a  man  and  as  a  writer.  It  is  not  my  purpose 
in  this  paper  to  review  these  volumes,  though  it 
would  be  a  labor  of  love  to  one  who  has  always  felt 
the  charm  of  Poe's  genius,  and  had  some  slight 

(190 


192  Fifty  Years. 

knowledge  of  the  man  as  he  was  in  the  last  days 
of  his  life — a  life  that  seemed  all  too  brief  when  he 
died,  leaving  those  who  survived  and  came  after 
him  to  guess  and  wonder  what  he  might  have  done 
had  he  lived  as  long  as  some  of  his  critics. 

At  the  time  of  Poe's  death  it  was  an  unsettled 
question  as  to  what  was  his  proper  place  in  litera- 
ture— a  meteor  sweeping  across  the  heavens,  or  a 
fixed  star  that  was  to  shine  always  in  the  literary 
firmament.  This  curiosity  was  the  principal  mo- 
tive that  prompted  me  to  attend  the  lecture  de- 
livered by  him  in  the  city  of  Richmond  just  before 
his  death.  With  this  motive  there  were  mingled 
a  feeling  of  neighborliness  and  a  sentiment  of  local 
patriotism.  Poe  was  then  a  much-talked-of  man. 
The  critics  were  still  trying  to  determine  whether 
we  had  among  us  a  brilliant  literary  genius  or 
merely  an  oddity  of  some  sort.  But  at  any  rate 
he  had  caught  the  ear  of  the  reading  public,  and 
their  curiosity  was  whetted  to  see  and  know  more 
concerning  him.  The  best  people  of  Richmond 
were  glad  to  learn  that  he  had  taken  a  pledge  of 
total  abstinence  from  alcoholic  liquors  and  become 
a  member  of  the  order  of  Sons  of  Temperance, 
which  was  then  making  a  great  stir  in  all  parts  of 
our  country.     This  organization  was  the  advance 


Edgar  Allan  Poe.  193 

guard  of  the  temperance  forces,  fighting  battles  and 
winning  victories  whose  effects  are  felt  unto  this 
day.     It  was  given  out  that  Mr.  Poe  had  arranged 
to  take  a  place  on  the  editorial  staff  of  the  Rich- 
mond Examiner,  a  newspaper  of  growing  notoriety 
and  influence  which  was  aspiring  to  a  position  of 
leadership  among  its  contemporaries  in  the  South. 
It  was  understood  that  he  was  to  be  its  literary 
editor,  with  a  carte  blanche  to  speak  his  whole  mind 
on  all  subjects,  and  with  the  expectation  that  he 
was  to  make  a  fresh  start  and  do  the  best  work  of 
which  he  was  capable.     John  M.  Daniel  was  to  con- 
tinue as  editor  in  chief,  with  special  responsibility 
for    its    political    attitude    and    utterances.     This 
meant  that  the  paper  was  to  be  ultra  state's  rights 
in  its  views,  trenchant  in  its  style,  ready  for  a  tilt 
with  all  timid  and  doubting  patriots,  and  apt  to 
apply  a  touch  of  caustic  to  any  dunce  or  weakling 
who  came  before  the  reading  public  in  such  a  way 
as  to  justify  the  belief  that  he  was  a  fool.     And  how 
Daniel's  satires  did  burn!     The  victims  of  his  per- 
sonal paragraphs  were  pilloried  to  be  gazed  at  by 
their  fellows  with  pity  or  contempt,  as  they  might 
severally  incline.     Robert  W.  Hughes  was  to  be  a 
special   contributor  on   economic   questions.     He 
had  a  passion  for  statistics,  and  made  the  impres- 

*3 


194  Fifty  Years. 

sion  upon  the  average  reader  that  he  understood 
the  science  of  political  economy,  and  was  a  true 
patriot — an  impression  that  was  somewhat  modi- 
fied in  after  days.  Arthur  E.  Petticolas  was  to  be 
the  art  editor.  He  was  of  a  Virginia  family  that 
took  to  art  as  naturally  as  birds  take  to  singing  and 
flying.  Painting  and  music  were  specialized  by 
the  Petticolases,  male  and  female,  and  x\rthur  pos- 
sessed both  the  enthusiasm  and  the  culture  that 
qualified  him  for  his  work  as  an  art  editor.  Then 
there  was  Patrick  Henry  Aylette,  who  was  to  be 
a  sort  of  special  contributor,  a  free  lance  in  the 
discussion  of  all  questions  in  ethics  or  politics. 
He  was  a  descendant  and  namesake  of  Patrick 
Henry,  the  inspired  orator  of  our  American  Revo- 
lution. Aylette  was  a  picturesque  specimen  of  the 
Virginia  lawyer-politician  of  that  day.  He  was 
almost  a  physical  giant,  being  nearly  seven  feet 
high.  He  overflowed  with  good  fellowship,  and 
had  a  vein  of  genuine  humor  running  through  all 
he  spoke  and  wrote.  This  was  a  strong  journalistic 
combination,  and  would  have  produced  notable 
results  had  the  scheme  been  consummated. 

To  give  expression  to  their  interest  in  him  as  a 
rising  literary  celebrity,  to  extend  to  him  moral 
encouragement  in  the  life  of  self-control  to  which 


Edgar  Allan  Poe.  195 

he  had  pledged  himself,  and  to  furnish  him  prac- 
tical help  in  the  adjustment  of  his  pecuniary  af- 
fairs, Air.  Poe  was  invited  to  deliver  a  pay  lecture 
on  any  subject  he  might  be  pleased  to  name.  The 
assembly  room  of  the  old  Exchange  Hotel  was 
chosen  as  the  place;  the  price  of  tickets  was  fixed 
at  five  dollars  each.  About  three  hundred  persons 
could  be  crowded  into  this  auditorium;  yet  every 
seat  was  filled,  and  some  of  the  ticket-holders  had 
to  be  turned  away.  I  was  one  of  the  audience,  and 
was  fortunate  in  getting  a  good  seat  where  I  could 
see  and  hear  all  that  I  came  to  see  and  hear.  When 
Mr.  Poe  came  upon  the  platform  and  stood  before 
that  crowded  house  and  looked  into  those  friendly 
faces,  over  his  features  came  almost  a  smile  as  he 
bowed  with  quiet  dignity  and  grace.  Almost  a 
smile — so  I  write  the  words — for,  though  I  saw 
him  frequently  during  the  last  months  of  his  life, 
I  never  saw  him  laugh  or  even  smile.  His  face 
was  habitually  the  saddest  I  ever  saw. 

Having  been  duly  introduced  to  his  audience,  he 
announced  his  subject,  namely:  "The  Poetic  Prin- 
ciple." Readers  who  are  familiar  with  Poe's  works 
know  what  he  said  then  and  there;  those  who  may 
wish  to  read  its  full  text  may  find  it  in  Volume 
XIV.  of  this  Virginia  edition  of  his  works,  last 


196  Fifty  Years. 

chapter.  He  stood  before  us  a  medium-sized  man, 
elegantly  dressed  in  black,  with  dark  complexion, 
good  features,  shapely  head,  and  great  dark  eyes 
that  after  having  once  seen  you  could  never  for- 
get. As  to  elocution,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  any 
such  thing  in  his  delivery.  Not  a  gesture  was 
made  by  him  from  first  to  last.  His  voice  was 
without  any  conscious  inflections  in  the  usual  sense 
of  the  word.  Yet  he  held  the  undivided  attention 
of  his  hearers  as  he  stood  there  and  read  page  after 
page — seeming  somehow  to  evoke  the  very  souls 
of  the  poets  he  quoted,  now  and  then  lifting  those 
large,  luminous  eyes  and  flashing  forth  meanings 
newer  and  deeper  into  the  rhythmical  sentences  as 
they  flowed  from  his  lips.  Those  eyes!  they  were 
eyes  that  held  your  gaze  with  a  strange  fascination, 
and  seemed  to  see  deeper  and  farther  than  those 
of  other  men.  When  he  spoke  contemptuously 
of  "the  thing  called  the  North  American  Review" 
the  glint  of  them  was  as  a  lightning  flash;  when 
he  spoke  of  Alfred  Tennyson  as  "the  noblest  poet 
that  ever  lived,"  their  kindly  expression  seemed 
to  diffuse  a  gentle  glow  over  that  listening  assem- 
bly. It  was  a  touch  subtle  but  sure  that  brought 
out  the  special  characteristics  of  the  different  poets 
of  whom  he  gave  his  critical  judgments  and  from 


Edgar  Allan  Poe.  197 

whom  he  quoted  at  length — Bryant,  Longfellow, 
Pinkney,    Moore,    Byron,    Willis,    Hood,    Scott, 
Thomson,  Tennyson,  and  the  rest.     In  my  own 
mind  this  lecture  of  Poe  is  associated  with  one  that 
I  heard  from  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson  in  San  Fran- 
cisco at  a  later  day.     Two  tamer  readers  I  never 
heard,   judging  by   ordinary   standards;   yet   esti- 
mated according  to  the  pleasure  received  in  the 
hearing  of  them,  and  the  permanence  of  the  impres- 
sion made  by  them,  they  hold  a  place  all  their  own 
among  my  delightful  recollections  of  the  men  I 
have  seen  and  heard.     Whenever  he  made  any  al- 
lusion to  the  Supreme  Being,  Mr.  Poe's  manner  was 
marked  by  every  indication  of  profound  reverence. 
The  thesis  of  the  lecture,  as  given  in  Mr.  Poe's 
own  words,  was  as  follows:  "I  would  define,  in 
brief,   the   poetry  of  words  as  the  rhythmical  de- 
scription   of    Beauty.     Its    sole    arbiter    is    Taste. 
With  the  intellect  or  with  the  conscience,  it  has 
only  collateral   relations.     Unless   incidentally,   it 
has  no  concern  whatever  with  duty  or  with  truth." 
The  very  heart's  core  of  the  lecture,  as  I  remember 
it  at  this  distance  of  time,  is  in  the  extract  follow- 
ing.    As  I  trace  the  words  on  the  printed  page 
that  lies  before  me,  it  all  comes  back  vividly — the 
magnetism  of  his  presence,  the  subtle  thrill  that 


198  Fifty  Years. 

was  in  his  voice,  and  the  strange  fascination  that 
was  in  his  eyes.  Having  conveyed  to  us  his  con- 
ception of  the  poetic  principle — suggesting  that, 
while  this  principle  itself  is  strictly  and  simply  the 
human  aspiration  for  supernal  beauty,  and  af- 
firming that  the  manifestation  of  the  principle  is 
always  found  in  an  elevating  excitement  of  the  soul — 
that  passion  which  is  the  intoxication  of  the  heart 
— or  of  that  truth  which  is  the  satisfaction  of  the 
reason — he  said: 

"We  shall  reach,  however,  more  immediately  a 
distinct  conception  of  what  the  true  poetry  is,  by 
mere  reference  to  a  few  of  the  simple  elements 
which  induce  in  the  poet  himself  the  true  poetical 
effect.  He  recognizes  the  ambrosia  which  nour- 
ishes his  soul,  in  the  bright  orbs  that  shine  in 
heaven — in  the  volutes  of  the  flower — in  the  clus- 
tering of  the  low  shrubberies — in  the  waving  of  the 
grain-fields — in  the  slanting  of  the  tall  mountains 
— in  the  grouping  of  clouds — in  the  twinkling  of 
half-hidden  brooks — in  the  gleaming  of  silver  riv- 
ers— in  the  repose  of  sequestered  lakes — in  the  star- 
mirroring  depths  of  lonely  wells.  He  perceives  it 
in  the  song  of  birds — in  the  harp  of  yEolus — in  the 
sighing  of  the  night-wind — in  the  repining  voice  of 
the  forest — in  the  surf  that  complains  to  the  shore 


Edgar  Allan  Poe.  199 

— in  the  fresh  breath  of  the  woods — in  the  scent 
of  the  violet — in  the  voluptuous  perfume  of  the 
hyacinth — in  the  suggestive  odor  that  comes  to 
him  at  eventide  from  far-distant,  undiscovered  is- 
lands, over  dim  oceans,  illimitable  and  unexplored. 
He  owns  it  in  all  noble  thoughts — in  all  unworldly 
motives — in  all  holy  impulses — in  all  chivalrous, 
generous,  self-sacrificing  deeds.  He  feels  it  in  the 
beauty  of  woman — in  the  grace  of'her  step — in  the 
luster  of  her  eye — in  the  melody  of  her  voice — in 
her  soft  laughter — in  her  sigh — in  the  harmony  of 
the  rustling  of  her  robes.  He  deeply  feels  it  in  her 
winning  endearments — in  her  burning  enthusiasms 
— in  her  gentle  charities — in  her  meek  and  devo- 
tional endurances — but  above  all,  ah,  far  above  all, 
he  kneels  to  it — he  worships  it  in  the  faith,  in  the 
purity,  in  the  strength,  in  the  altogether  divine 
majesty  of  her  love." 

A  few  days  afterwards  it  was  whispered  from  lip 
to  lip  in  the  streets  of  Richmond,  "Poe  is  dead!" 
I  have  no  heart  for  the  recital  of  the  details  of  the 
story  of  his  death.  The  facts  in  brief,  as  they  were 
understood  at  the  time,  were  these:  At  a  birthday 
party  in  the  city  of  Baltimore  he  was  tempted  to 
break  his  pledge  of  total  abstinence;  he  yielded  and 
fell,  and  died  in  a  hospital  from  the  effects  of  over- 


200  Fifty  Years. 

indulgence.  Here  the  curtain  falls  upon  this  piti- 
ful, pitiful  tragedy  of  the  life  and  death  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe. 

It  would  be  idle  to  indulge  in  speculation  as  to 
what  Poe  might  have  achieved  had  he  lived  longer 
or  differently.  But  one  thing  may  be  said  here: 
The  quality  of  the  work  he  did  during  the  period 
of  his  total  abstinence,  including  this  very  lecture, 
proves  that  with  him  there  was  no  necessary  con- 
nection between  alcoholic  stimulation  and  literary 
inspiration. 


' 


SOME  DOCTORS  OF  DIVINITY 

(20I) 


Some  Doctors  of  Divinity. 

To  certain  doctors  of  divinity,  properly  so  called, 
our  Church  owes  a  special  debt  of  gratitude  for  a 
theology  that  has  been  in  the  main  consistent  with 
itself  and  reverently  conformable  to  the  teaching 
of  the  Bible.     They  were  genuine  doctors  of  di- 
vinity, men  who  were  first  students  before  they 
became  teachers.     They  were  disciples  who  had 
sat  at  the  feet  of  the  Master  and  learned  of  him,  and 
who  from  that  personal  contact  went  forth  to  teach 
with  authority,  and  not  as  the  scribes  who  only 
memorized   and   repeated   dead   formulas,   nor  as 
others  who  propounded  their  conundrums  and  kept 
up  their  guessings  and  called  the  exercise  the  study 
of  divinity.     The  men  who  have  taught  theology 
among  us  have  been  men  who  believed  in  God,  a 
personal  God  in  whom  we  live  and  move  and  have 
our  being,  who  is  not  far  from  every  one  of  us — 
Creator,  Preserver,  Redeemer.     They  believed  in 
God,  and  it  was  not  difficult  for  them  to  believe 
that   he   could  reveal   himself  to   the   children   of 
men.     These  men  of  large  caliber  set  a  fashion,  so 
to  speak,  of  searching  for  truth  rather  than  seek- 

(2°3) 


204  Fifty  Years. 

ing  for  novelties.  As  mighty  men-of-war  they 
sailed  the  seas  of  religious  thought,  carrying  guns 
that  were  too  heavy  for  the  smaller  craft  that 
flaunted  hostile  flags  and  mistook  and  misnamed 
things  so  grossly.  There  they  are — a  group  of 
these  teachers  of  our  teachers — the  editors  of  our 
Southern  Methodist  Quarterly  Review  in  succession: 
Henry  B.  Bascom,  Albert  Taylor  Bledsoe,  David  S. 
Doggett,  Thomas  O.  Summers,  James  W.  Hinton, 
W.  P.  Harrison,  John  J.  Tigert.  The  expression 
was  used  deliberately:  these  men  were  the  teach- 
ers of  those  who  in  their  turn  became  the  teachers 
of  our  people  at  large — holding  to  the  form  of 
sound  words,  and  following  the  good  fashion  set 
by  declining  to  take  a  panic  whenever  an  untrained 
yoke  jostled  the  ark. 

Bascom,  the  first  editor  of  the  Review,  was 
more  of  an  orator  than  a  writer;  but  he  was  a 
massive  man,  a  thinker  who  had  a  mighty  sweep 
in  his  thought,  a  leader  who  was  followed  gladly 
and  proudly  in  his  day.  He  struck  a  high  key- 
note for  our  Quarterly  Review  at  the  very  start, 
setting  forth  a  supernatural  religion  that  dealt 
with  divinity  and  with  accompanying  signs  and 
wonders.  He  trod  the  sunlit  summits  of  faith 
above  the  fogs  of  doubt:  men  in  the  Church  who 


Some  Doctors  of  Divinity.  205 

were  seeking"  ammunition  with  which  to  fight  it 
had  to  go  elsewhere  to  find  it. 

And  there  is  Bledsoe,  militant  and  mighty  Dr. 
Bledsoe,  who  had  the  strength  of  a  giant  and  loved 
to  put  it  forth  in  fair  and  open  fight  for  the  truth 
as  he  saw  it.  A  young  theologian  of  to-day,  tak- 
ing up  Bledsoe's  "Theodicy"  and  looking  over 
its  chapters,  will  rightly  conclude  that  there  were 
giants  in  his  day,  or  that  at  least  there  was  one 
thinker  who  gave  to  the  exposition  of  Arminian 
theology  a  learning  that  grasped  the  whole  sub- 
ject and  a  logic  that  went  to  the  bottom  of  it. 
There  may  be  more  of  condensation  and  some 
change  for  the  better  in  the  methods  of  modern 
text-books  on  theology;  but  the  theological  stu- 
dent will  prize  Bledsoe  in  his  library  as  long  as 
the  student  of  natural  history  studies  the  anatomy 
of  the  mastodon  in  the  museum.  Bledsoe  was  a 
controversialist  who  did  love  the  truth  and  did  love 
to  fight,  and  so  had  a  double  motive  for  combat. 
His  duels  excited  a  lively  interest  at  the  time  they 
took  place:  the  last  that  was  seen  of  some  of  his 
opposers  was  when  they  met  him  in  the  open  sea 
of  polemic  conflict,  and  after  the  shock  of  the  col- 
lision were  seen  no  more. 

Doggett  is  no  stranger  to  the  reader  of  these 


206  Fifty  Years. 

pages.  As  a  preacher  and  writer  he  was  ortho- 
doxy set  to  music,  a  Chrysostom  in  style,  who 
charmed  his  contemporaries  by  the  solid  strength 
of  his  thought  and  the  splendor  of  his  rhetoric,  but 
never  fell  into  the  sin  of  Nadab  and  Abihu  by  kind- 
ling the  strange  fires  of  exegetical  eccentricity  or 
magnifying  the  transient  trifles  of  the  passing  hour 
— as  the  manner  of  some  is.  As  the  editor  of  the 
Quarterly  Review  his  influence  was  both  conserva- 
tive and  potential  in  a  high  degree:  his  learning  was 
set  for  the  truth  as  the  truth  is  in  Jesus,  evangelical 
scholars  being  the  judges.  And  I  may  be  per- 
mitted in  all  kindness  and  candor  to  say  just  here 
that  they  are  the  best  judges  in  this  matter:  there 
is  a  subtle  quality  in  Christ's  gospel  which  is  recog- 
nized by  the  scholar  who  is  evangelical  as  well  as 
learned.  This  quality  is  spiritual  insight;  it  is  not 
a  substitute  for  learning,  but  it  is  the  one  thing 
that  supplements  the  furnishing  of  a  teacher  truly 
sent  of  God — a  man  who  on  the  human  side  dis- 
cerns natural  things  in  the  natural  way,  and  yet 
knows  that  spiritual  things  must  be  spiritually 
discerned.  This  does  not  look  to  the  substitution 
of  rant  and  cant  for  study  on  the  one  hand;  nor 
does  it  substitute  the  profane  babblings  of  materi- 
alism, the  oppositions  of  science  so  called,  for  the 


Some  Doctors  of  Divinity.  207 

faith  which  is  the  substance  of  things  hoped  for, 
the  evidence  of  things  not  seen  by  the  natural  eye. 
Thomas  O.  Summers  I  have  described  elsewhere 
— Dr.  Summers,  the  student  always  busy,  the  po- 
lemic always  ready  to  give  a  reason  for  the  creed  he 
taught,  the  brother  whose  hand  was  ready  to  clasp 
in  fellowship  that  of  every  other  disciple  of  Jesus 
on  earth.  He  did  seem  to  think  it  was  strange 
that  anybody  with  the  open  Bible  before  him  could 
doubt  that  the  Methodists  were  in  the  apostolic 
succession,  and  the  movement  that  John  Wesley 
providentially  begun  was  bound  logically  to  run 
into  the  millennium.  At  the  same  time  he  thought 
it  just  as  strange  that  any  person  could  make  a 
difference  of  opinion  with  regard  to  religion  the 
ground  of  a  difference  of  feeling  between  brethren 
of  different  communions.  He  was  ready  in  season 
and  out  of  season  to  contend  for  the  faith  once  de- 
livered to  the  saints,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
would  not  have  scorned  to  wash  the  feet  of  the 
poorest  disciple  of  any  persuasion  on  earth  that 
named  the  name  of  Christ.  He  stood  ready  to 
bruise  the  head  of  any  snake  of  unbelief  that  showed 
itself  in  his  day.  He  was  a  learned,  watchful,  and 
courageous  saint,  who  felt  that  he  must  fight  now, 
fully  expecting  to  reign  with  his  Lord  hereafter. 


208  Fifty  Years. 

The  time  when  they  could  not  endure  sound  doc- 
trine did  not  come  in  his  day:  they  had  to  endure; 
he  left  them  no  choice. 

Hinton  was  and  is  one  of  the  kindliest  of  men, 
but  his  religious  opinions  were  so  fused  in  the  white 
heat  of  the  great  evangelical  revival  in  Georgia 
that  he  finds  it  difficult  to  imagine  how  a  man  can 
sincerely  call  himself  a  Christian  and  hold  to  any 
other  view  of  doctrine  or  method  of  saving  souls. 
He  spared  no  pains  or  toil  in  expounding  and  de- 
fending the  truth,  and  grudged  no  space  in  his 
Review  for  the  most  elaborate  discussion  of  the 
grandest  themes  by  the  ablest  thinkers.  He  ex- 
hibited the  sincerity  that  is  patent  to  all,  and  had 
that  sort  of  orthodoxy  that  is  contagious. 

Dr.  Harrison  was  another  Georgian  like-minded 
in  essentials.  He  was  a  patient  student,  and  turned 
all  his  studies  one  way.  To  get  a  flash  of  exegeti- 
cal  light  he  would  have  been  willing  to  devour  a 
whole  library  or  to  cross  an  ocean,  if  possible.  He 
was  an  enthusiast  in  pursuit  of  the  highest  truths. 
He  loved  to  follow  an  exegetical  trail  that  was 
cold  to  ordinary  students  and  teachers.  If  the 
sources  of  biblical  interpretation  were  not  clear  of 
obstruction  or  free  from  alloy,  it  was  surely  no  fault 
of  his.     No  one  who  knew  him  as  he  was  feared 


Some  Doctors  of  Divinity.  209 

any  failure  from  lack  of  learning,  lack  of  zeal,  or 
lack  of  the  courage  of  his  convictions:  he  was  un- 
worldly and  unafraid  of  the  world's  frown. 

The  present  incumbent — John  J.  Tigert — is  in 
the  true  succession.  He  was  a  pupil  of  Summers 
and  of  Granbery — a  fact  that  furnishes  a  presump- 
tion of  straight-edged  orthodoxy  which  we  all  de- 
light to  acknowledge.  He  is  clear  and  strong,  able 
to  toil  mightily,  and  very  apt  to  place  his  work 
where  it  will  tell  most.  The  streams  from  which 
are  supplied  the  teachings  which  flow  through  the 
pages  of  his  Review  are  kept  pure.  Dr.  Tigert  is 
one  of  the  genuine  doctors  of  divinity:  he  knows 
the  anatomy  of  the  body  ecclesiastic,  and  has  his 
finger  on  its  pulse.  But  he  seems  to  have  little  am- 
bition to  be  the  inventor  of  nostrums  to  cure  its 
ills,  real  or  imaginary:  rather  it  seems  to  be  his  de- 
sire to  feed  our  people  with  food  convenient  for 
them,  to  have  them  exercise  themselves  unto  god- 
liness, and  thus  grow  in  grace  and  in  the  knowl- 
edge of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.  Yet  he  furnishes 
an  illustration  of  the  pleasing  fact  that  a  man  need 
not  stop  growing  because  he  thinks  within  the 
lines  of  orthodoxy:  he  need  not  take  a  twist  be- 
cause he  is  not  hide-bound.  There  are  those  who 
seem  to  think  that  a  little  touch  of  heresy  is  a  sign 
14 


210  Fifty  Years. 

of  a  little  streak  of  genius;  but  Dr.  Tigert  is  not 
one  of  these. 

Three  other  names  seem  to  come  in  here  by  in- 
evitable suggestion — the  names  of  W.  F.  Tillett, 
Gross  Alexander,  and  J.  A.  Kern.  Drs.  Tillett, 
Alexander,  and  Kern,  all  doctors  of  divinity  worthy 
of  the  ne.me — each  being  the  author  of  a  book  of 
divinity  as  well  as  a  successful  teacher  of  it.  Dr. 
Tillett's  book  is  entitled  "Personal  Salvation,"  and 
is  a  notably  luminous,  strong,  and  direct  presenta- 
tion of  the  most  momentous  of  all  questions.  Dr. 
Alexander's  book,  "The  Son  of  Man,"  was  a  happy 
surprise  to  the  religious  public  because  of  its  in- 
cisiveness  and  originality  and  spiritual  insight. 
Dr.  Kern's  book,  "The  Way  of  the  Preacher,"  is 
such  a  rare  combination  of  literary  grace  and  prac- 
tical sagacity  that  it  won  its  way  with  the  preach- 
ers at  once.  It  involves  no  strain  on  the  con- 
science or  stretch  of  meaning  to  call  these  teachers 
doctors  of  divinity.  There  are  others — but  this 
chapter  is  now  full  long.  To  put  in  all  the  names 
that  crowd  upon  my  mind  would  require  not  only 
another  chapter,  but  a  new  book. 


THAT  NEW  GRAVE  IN  THE  FAR 
EAST. 

(211) 


That  New  Grave  in  the  Far  East. 

"I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother;  .  .  . 
very  pleasant  hast  thou  been  unto  me."  The 
words  will  come  to  mind  when  I  think  of  the 
death  of  my  dear  friend,  and  nearest  neighbor,  Dr. 
D.  C.  Rankin,  who  died  in  Korea  December  27, 
1902.  My  judgment  tells  me  that  the  dominant 
note  in  our  souls  should  be  that  of  thankfulness  for 
the  gift  of  such  a  man  to  the  Church;  but  the  sense 
of  loss  is  so  great,  the  grief  we  feel  is  so  sore,  that  we 
can  do  little  more  than  weep  with  those  that  weep, 
while  we  think  of  the  new  grave  in  the  far  East  and 
remember  that  we  shall  see  his  kindly  face  no  more 
on  earth.  These  wintry  skies  have  a  deeper  gloom 
when  we  think  of  our  missing  friend  and  brother. 

So  speaks  my  heart.  I  know  that  what  God 
does  is  right,  and  that  what  he  permits  is  best. 
T  do  not  mistrust  his  wisdom,  nor  rebel  against  his 
providence.  But  this  is  the  paradox  of  this  event 
to  us:  the  very  qualities  that  make  us  thankful  that 
God  gave  such  a  man  as  Dr.  Rankin  to  the  Church 
intensify  our  grief  and  enhance  our  sense  of  loss 
when  he  is  taken  away. 

("3) 


214  Fifty  Years. 

Dr.  Rankin  was  a  burning  and  shining  light. 
He  had  a  zeal  that  was  according  to  knowledge. 
He  was  a  living  encyclopedia  of  missionary  infor- 
mation and  religious  knowledge  in  general — and 
his  knowledge  was  minute  and  exact  as  it  was 
ample.  His  soul  was  on  fire  with  love  for  lost 
souls;  it  was  his  joy  to  spend  and  be  spent  in  his 
Master's  service.  Had  he  been  spared  to  come 
back  to  his  editorial  work  after  making  this  East- 
ern tour,  he  would  have  sown  the  Church  thick 
with  facts  bearing  on  the  missionary  work.  He 
burned  and  shined;  the  peril  of  lost  souls  quickened 
his  zeal,  and  the  love  of  the  living  Christ  gave  him 
the  spring  of  power. 

The  cablegram  that  brought  the  tidings  of  his 
death  was  in  these  words:  "Rankin  asleep."  Brave 
and  beloved  brother,  your  true  heart  never  failed 
to  respond  to  the  call  of  duty,  your  willing  hand 
never  rested  when  it  could  do  any  work  for  your 
Lord.  The  Parable  of  the  Talents  takes  on  a 
fresh  meaning  when  applied  to  such  a  life  as  that  of 
Dr.  Rankin;  the  reward  of  faithful  service  here  on 
earth  will  be  larger  opportunity  "Up  Yonder" 
where  the  laborers  shall  be  reckoned  with  by  the 
Lord  of  the  harvest.  He  will  find  congenial  com- 
panionship among  the  heavenly  spirits,  whose  of- 


That  New  Grave  in  the  Far  East.     215 

fice  it  is  to  minister  unto  the  heirs  of  salvation. 
Our  thought  and  our  love  follow  him  in  his  flight; 
through  grace  abiding  and  abounding  we  hope  to 
meet  him  where  our  Lord  will  make  good  his  prom- 
ise that  where  he  is  we  shall  be  also;  and  where 
he  will  also  make  good  that  other  promise  which 
our  human  hearts  so  much  need  in  the  presence  of 
a  sorrow  like  this:  "What  I  do,  thou  knowest  not 
now,  but  thou  shalt  know  hereafter." 

Above  all  and  most  of  all,  Dr.  Rankin  was  a 
Christian  scholar  and  worker.  He  made  all  his 
vast  and  varied  attainments  tributary  to  his  work 
as  a  minister  of  the  gospel  of  Christ.  He  laid  all 
at  the  feet  of  his  Lord.  He  could  say  with  the 
apostle  Paul,  "This  one  thing  I  do."  He  was 
truly  a  marvel  of  scholastic  fullness  and  accuracy 
— history,  art,  science,  philosophy,  literature,  he 
knew  as  few  men  know  them.  He  intermeddled 
with  all  learning,  and  what  he  knew  he  knew  thor- 
oughly. His  mind  was  a  storehouse  of  useful 
knowledge,  not  the  lumber-room  of  a  pedant. 

A  more  transparently  guileless  man  I  have  not 
known.  He  loved  the  truth,  spared  no  pains  in 
searching  for  it,  and  would  have  died  for  it,  had 
duty  called  him  to  do  so. 

I  am  glad  that  God  blessed  mv  life  with  the 


216  Fifty  Years. 

friendship  of  such  a  man.  I  am  thankful  for  the 
help  he  gave  me  in  Christian  living.  I  rejoice  in 
the  hope  that  through  the  unfailing  mercy  of  God 
I  shall  meet  him  where  we  shall  know  even  as  we 
are  known — that  is  to  say,  it  will  be  made  clear  to 
us  that  we  and  our  loved  ones  are  led  by  the  best 
way,  though  it  was  a  way  we  knew  not.  But — yes, 
the  question  still  suggests  itself  while  we  are  on 
this  side  of  the  Great  Mystery — why  was  it  that 
such  a  man  as  D.  C.  Rankin  should  have  the  way 
opened  for  him  to  visit  the  mission  fields  in  the  far 
East,  hoping  to  gain  fuller  equipment  for  his  work, 
and  then  find  there  only  a  grave?  My  eye  rests 
at  this  moment  on  the  twenty-third  verse  of  the 
thirty-seventh  Psalm:  "The  steps  of  a  good  man  are 
ordered  [or  established]  by  the  Lord;  and  he  de- 
lighteth  in  his  way."  I  know,  I  feel  that  it  is  true; 
yea,  more,  I  get  a  glimpse  of  the  fact  that  to  die  as 
he  did  and  where  he  did  crystallized  for  his  breth- 
ren a  lesson  that  will  not  lose  its  beauty  nor  fail  in 
its  inspiration.  Things  do  not  go  as  we  expect  in 
this  life — but  the  Lord  knoweth  the  way  of  the 
righteous.  That  new  grave  in  the  far  East  means 
a  current  of  fresh  missionary  zeal  flowing  into  many 
souls  who  see  in  such  souls  as  Rankin  the  image  of 
the  Christ  who  tasted  death  for  every  man. 


AN  EXPERIENCE. 

(«7) 


An  Experience. 

I  had  been  having  frequent  returns  of  those 
''sinking  spells"  which  were  among  the  signs  of 
my  being  an  actual  sufferer  from  that  indefinable 
and  relentless  malady  called  nervous  prostration. 
It  is  a  term  that  means  nothing  in  particular,  but 
everything  in  general  that  is  puzzling  to  science 
and  painful  to  its  victims.     An  attempt  to  describe 
it  will  not  be  made  in  this  place.     A  description  is 
not  needed  by  readers  who  know  what  it  is  by  ex- 
perience, and  it  would  not  be  understood  by  any 
reader  who  has  not  felt  it.     I  claim  a  brotherly  re- 
lation to  all  who  have  had  personal  acquaintance 
with  this  malady,  which  is  the  product  of  the  high 
pressure  of  this  progressive  time  when  we  are  going 
somewhere  so  fast.     They  know  how  it  has  made 
the  days  so  trying  and  the  nights  so  long.     And 
some  of  them  know  how  it  has  made  sweeter  the 
hope  of  entrance  upon  that  life  of  which  it  is  said, 
in  words  that  seem  so  strange  to  us  now,  that  one 
of  its  features  will  be  everlasting  exemption  from 
pain.     That  is  a  good  thing  in  a  good  world. 

One  May  day  in  this  present  year  of  our  Lord 

(219) 


220  Fifty  Years. 

1903  I  was  called  to  visit  one  of  these  sufferers. 
This  sufferer  was  a  sufferer  indeed.  She  had  been 
a  very  energetic  woman  in  business  life  and  as  a 
worker  in  the  Church — one  of  those  women  who 
took  part  in  all  the  good  work  that  was  going  on 
around  her,  keeping  step  with  the  foremost  in  the 
path  of  duty.  Now  she  was  a  nervous  wreck,  un- 
able to  walk,  or  even  to  stand  upon  her  feet  unas- 
sisted; her  power  of  speech  greatly  impaired,  her 
whole  frame  partially  paralyzed  and  burdened  with 
those  disabilities  that  make  a  perpetual  draft  upon 
human  patience  and  endurance.  For  her  comfort 
and  help  I  wished  to  take  her  a  message  from  our 
heavenly  Father,  and  had  selected  a  passage  from 
that  golden  chapter  of  New  Testament  Scripture, 
the  eighth  chapter  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans: 
"We  know  that  all  things  work  together  for  good 
to  them  that  love  God."  (Verse  28.)  On  the 
way  to  her  house,  as  I  rode  along  revolving  these 
words,  one  of  those  "sinking  spells"  came  upon  me 
that  have  so  often  seemed  to  make  it  doubtful 
whether  I  was  for  the  time  being  in  or  out  of  the 
body.  After  recovering  consciousness,  and  de- 
clining to  forego  the  intended  visit,  as  was  kindly 
suggested  by  my  traveling  companion,  I  rode  on, 
revolving  mentally   my  intended   message.     The 


An  Experience.  221 

more  I  thought  of  it  the  more  it  grew  upon  me. 
"This  very  sinking  spell,  from  which  I  have  just 
emerged,"  I  said  to  myself,  "punctuates  the  mes- 
sage that  I  carry,  and  tests  the  sincerity  of  the 
messenger."  These  words  are  truly  wonderful 
words:  "All  things  work  together  for  good  to  them 
that  love  God."  What  do  they  mean?  Just  this: 
that  everything  that  touches  a  soul  that  loves  God 
is  subsidized  for  the  good  of  that  soul.  This  in- 
cludes all  losses,  all  crosses,  all  suffering.  This 
wonderful  saying  broadened  and  brightened  as  I 
held  it  before  my  mind. 

Then  the  certainty  that  this  wonderful  saying 
is  true  was  a  source  of  still  deeper  joy.  "We 
know,"  said  the  apostle.  So  we  may  say;  so  we 
do  say.  How  do  we  know?  (1)  We  know  it, 
first  of  all,  because  God  has  said  it.  We  can  take 
him  at  his  word.  All  great  and  gracious  things 
are  possible  unto  our  great  and  gracious  Lord. 
(2)  We  know  it  is  so  because  we  feel  the  love 
which  is  the  condition  of  the  blessing  promised. 
Feeling  this  love  in  its  sweetness  and  power  now, 
it  is  impossible  for  us  to  doubt  its  continuance. 
We  said  to  ourselves  that  we  would  hold  this 
mighty  truth  in  our  thought;  we  would  dwell  on 
it  in  our  prayers;  we  would  make  it  a  cause  for 


222  Fifty  Years. 

praise  and  thanksgiving — so  we  felt,  and  so  we 
purposed  in  our  hearts;  and  the  first  thing  we  knew 
our  souls  were  flooded  with  a  mighty  joy  in  the  full 
persuasion — as  the  apostle  expresses  it  in  the  clos- 
ing verses  of  this  eighth  chapter  of  the  Epistle  to 
the  Romans — that  from  such  love  nothing  shall  be 
able  to  separate  us  in  time  or  in  eternity. 

So  I  felt  as  I  delivered  God's  message  to  my  suf- 
fering friend:  so  I  feel  now.  I  felt  then  that  all 
was  safe:  I  feel  now  that  all  is  safe.  Therefore  I 
will  join  in  the  song  that  celebrates  the  Victory  of 
Faith.  And  not  forgetting  that  this  love  reaches 
forward  and  takes  hold  of  eternity,  I  hope  by  and 
by  with  larger  powers  and  fuller  freedom  to  join 
in  a  sweeter,  nobler  song. 


THE  UNSLEEPING  NIGHT  WATCH. 

(223) 


The  Unsleeping  Night  Watch. 

At  a  time  when  I  was  suffering  much  pain,  and 
losing  much  sleep,  and  when  many  of  my  friends 
were  fighting  the  same  hard  battle  sorely  pressed, 
this  one  hundred  and  twenty-first  Psalm  came  to 
me  with  a  touch  of  help  and  comfort.  When  such 
a  touch  is  genuine,  it  brings  a  desire  to  pass  it  on 
to  others.  The  pathos  of  some  of  these  cases  of 
suffering  from  insomnia  and  nervous  distress  could 
not  be  put  into  words.  Such  sufferers  need  a 
special  word  of  comfort — and  here  it  is  in  the  fourth 
verse  of  that  Psalm:  "Behold,  he  that  keepeth  Is- 
rael shall  neither  slumber  nor  sleep." 

This  is  the  day  of  trained  nurses  for  the  sick- 
room, and  they  are  a  beneficent  agency  of  our  mod- 
ern civilization.  But  with  all  their  special  study 
and  training  they  are  limited.  In  the  deep  night 
watches  they  grow  weary  and  heavy  in  spirit,  need- 
ing slumber  and  sleep  for  themselves. 

Love  itself,   even   the   truest  and  the  deepest, 

flags.     The  spirit  may  be  willing,  but  the  flesh  is 

weak.     There  is  a  limit — not  to  what  human  love 

would  do  for  its  beloved  object,  but  to  what  it  can 

*5  (225) 


226  Fifty  Years. 

do.  Blessed  are  they  who  know  what  such  love 
is.  There  are  some  who  have  known  it  in  days 
bygone,  but  by  whose  bedside  will  sit  no  more  the 
patient  watchers  whose  vigil  was  the  expression 
of  the  love  that  gives  its  all  gladly,  yet  with  the 
reminder  of  its  limitations  that  comes  again  and 
again  in  these  solemn  crises  that  bring  us  face  to 
face  with  the  fact  that  we  are  part  of  that  "whole 
creation  that  groaneth  and  travaileth  in  pain  to- 
gether until  now." 

But  there  is  a  Benignant  Presence  in  the  sick- 
room all  the  time,  when  we  sleep  and  when  we  wake 
alike.  This  is  the  promise:  "He  that  keepeth  thee 
will  not  slumber."  The  consciousness  of  that 
Presence  filled  my  soul  the  night  before  this  short 
chapter  was  written  with  a  sense  of  holy  security 
and  ineffable  peace  as  I  closed  my  eyes  for  slumber. 
When  I  awoke  next  morning  that  Presence  was 
still  there.  And  a  voice  spoke  to  my  soul  in  the 
very  words  of  the  Lord  who  is  our  keeper,  the  un- 
sleeping, unchanging  helper  and  comforter  of  his 
people.  "The  Lord  shall  preserve  thee  from  all 
evil:  he  shall  preserve  thy  soul.  The  Lord  shall 
preserve  thy  going  out  and  thy  coming  in  from 
this  time  forth,  and  even  for  evermore."  This  is 
enough.     It  takes  in  all  our  goings  and  comings 


The  Unsleeping  Night  Watch.       227 

on  earth.     It  includes  all  that  lies  before  us  in  eter- 
nity. 

For  the  fifty  years  of  the  mercy  which  has  not 
failed  me  for  a  single  day,  I  magnify  the  Lord. 
And  for  the  hope  that  it  will  be  with  me  ever- 
more, my  soul  sings  for  joy,  joining  in  this  song  of 
degrees. 


ALL  CREATION. 

(229) 


All  Creation. 

There  lies  below  us  the  city  of  Asheville  in  the 
Land  of  the  Sky,  far  enough  away  to  drown  its 
noises,  but  near  enough  to  disclose  every  feature 
of  interest.  Just  beyond  is  the  French  Broad 
River  winding  in  and  out  among  the  cliffs,  with 
here  and  there  still,  smooth  stretches  of  deep  water, 
and  anon  foaming  among  the  rocks  or  rippling 
over  the  pebbly  shallows.  In  the  distance  is  the 
dim  outline  of  the  Unaka  range  of  mountains,  the 
dividing  line  between  North  Carolina  and  Tennes- 
see; among  its  peaks  the  "Old  Bald"  of  Yancey 
county  and  Roan  Mountain.  Turning  to  the  left 
and  northwesterly,  the  outlines  of  the  Smoky 
Mountains  are  seen,  their  jagged  peaks  cleaving 
the  sky.  Almost  directly  westward  are  the  spurs 
and  pinnacles  encircling  the  head  waters  of  Sandy 
Mush,  New  Found,  and  Turkey  creeks — all  tribu- 
taries to  the  French  Broad.  Then  through  a  deep 
gap  westward  can  be  seen  the  top  of  the  Balsam 
Mountains,  and  to  the  left  of  these  the  Cold 
Mountains  at  the  head  of  Pigeon  River.  Then 
looking  to  the  left  our  vision  traverses  the  various 

(230 


232  Fifty  Years. 

ridges  and  spurs  of  mountains  at  the  head  of  Hom- 
iny Creek  until  it  rests  on  the  majestic  summit  of 
Mount  Pisgah,  five  thousand  and  seven  hundred 
feet  above  sea  level,  flushed  with  the  glories  of  the 
setting  sun.  From  Pisgah  by  gentle  gradations 
the  line  of  vision  moves  along  the  tops  of  the  dis- 
tant ridges  of  the  range  eastward  and  southerly, 
until  it  is  lost  in  the  smooth  outlines  of  the  Blue 
Ridge — the  Blue  Ridge  in  sight  of  which  I  was 
born,  and  which  has  been  imaged  in  my  soul  wher- 
ever I  have  traveled  by  land  or  sea.  Beyond  the 
city  of  Asheville  lying  at  our  feet  is  Biltmore, 
chaste  as  a  lily  and  classic  as  a  true  artist's  dream. 

Back  of  us  on  the  road  we  had  followed  returning 
from  the  Swiss  Dairy  Farm — a  five-mile  ride  of 
matchless  beauty — at  a  point  on  the  narrow  ridge 
where  the  landscape  stretched  away  and  away  and 
away  on  all  sides,  over  the  sleeping  valleys,  the 
flowing  river,  the  rippling  brooks,  the  rugged  cliffs, 
and  the  sloping  hills,  some  one  with  a  poet's  soul, 
but  an  inartistic  hand,  had  scrawled  on  a  rough 
board  the  words,  "All  Creation."  Then  and  there, 
with  a  sense  of  the  Infinite  in  the  depth  of  my  soul, 
this  thought  came  to  me:  The  forward  look  takes 
in  all  creation,  all  that  there  is  in  all  worlds — the 
Infinite  God,  the  boundless  universe,  and  all  eter- 


All  Creation.  233 

nity.  We  are  pupils  in  a  school  in  which  God  is 
our  teacher,  his  universe  our  text-book,  and  his 
eternal  years  the  term  of  our  tuition.  What  we 
know  not  now  we  shall  know  hereafter:  the  words 
have  a  meaning  deeper  than  we  can  fathom.  There 
will  be  no  hurry,  there  will  be  no  failure.  All  things 
are  ours;  we  are  Christ's,  and  Christ  is  God's.  This 
is  our  inheritance.  Nothing  less  will  satisfy  the 
child  of  God.  The  details  are  withheld  from  us 
now;  it  doth  not  yet  appear  what  we  shall  be;  but 
we  shall  be  like  our  Lord,  for  we  shall  see  him  as  he 
is.  There  is  no  room  for  doubt.  Now  are  we  the 
sons  of  God — this  we  know — the  Holy  Spirit  bear- 
ing witness  in  the  present  tense  to  our  sonship, 
and  certifying  our  heirship  to  the  riches  of  his  grace 
and  glory. 

Yes;  all  creation  is  embraced  in  the  vision  of  our 
faith,  and,  as  Tennyson  puts  it, 

All  experience  is  an  arch  wherethrough 

Gleams  that  untraveled  world,  whose  margin  fades 

Forever  and  forever  when  I  move. 


CALIFORNIA  IN  WAR  AND  PEACE. 

(235) 


California  in  War  and  Peace. 

Some  incidents  in  my  life  in  California  illustrate 
two  phases  of  American  character.  First,  a  true 
American  worthy  of  the  name  believes  that  an- 
other man  may  differ  from  him  in  opinion  and  yet 
be  honest  at  heart.  Secondly,  a  true  American 
believes  that  when  a  fight  is  ended  and  the  white 
flag  of  peace  is  flying  combatants  on  both  sides 
should  ground  their  arms,  clasp  hands,  and  be 
friends. 

During  the  War  between  the  States  I  was  the  edi- 
tor and  publisher  of  the  Pacific  Methodist,  in  the  city 
of  San  Francisco,  the  organ  of  the  Methodist  Epis- 
copal Church,  South,  for  the  Pacific  coast.  It  was 
then,  I  believe,  the  only  paper  west  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains  that  bore  the  word  "South"  in  its  title. 
While  I  took  no  part  in  party  politics,  I  did  not 
disguise  the  fact  that,  as  a  Southern  man,  my  sym- 
pathies were  with  my  own  people.  In  fact,  I  could 
not  have  done  so  had  I  tried.  My  temperament 
forbade.  Of  course,  in  the  fierce  excitement  of  the 
war  time,  I  and  my  paper  did  not  escape  criticism 
and  denunciation.     Threats  of  personal  violence 

(237) 


238  Fifty  Years. 

were  made  against  me  and  the  paper  more  than 
once  when  excitement  ran  highest.  Mark  Twain 
punctuated  the  sentiment  of  the  then  dominant 
sectional  element  in  California  when  he  said:  "Fitz- 
gerald is  editor  and  publisher  of  the  organ  of  the 
Methodist  Church,  South,  whose  object  is  to  show 
Southern  people  the  Southern  route  to  the  South- 
ern corner  of  a  Southern  heaven."  That  was  said 
only  in  fun;  the  irrepressible  humorist  had  no  ill- 
will  toward  the  Southern  Methodist  people  or  the 
editor. 

In  1863  the  Southern  wing  of  the  then  divided 
Democratic  party  nominated  me  for  the  office  of 
State  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction  of  Cali- 
fornia. They  gave  me  their  full  vote  (which  was 
far  short  of  a  majority)  at  the  polls,  though  my 
candidacy  was  rather  passive  than  positive,  as  I 
made  no  speeches,  wrote  no  letters,  made  no  prom- 
ises, and  spent  no  pennies  in  the  canvass.  In  1867, 
when  the  war  was  over,  the  divided  Democrats 
came  together,  and  at  their  State  Convention 
unanimously  nominated  me  again  for  the  same  of- 
fice. The  war  was  over  truly,  the  reaction  had 
come,  and  the  great-hearted  Californians — not  all 
saints,  but  most  of  them  magnanimous  and  brave 
— by  their  votes  elected  the  Southern  Methodist 


California  in  War  and  Peace.         239 

editor  to  that  honorable  and  important  office. 
The  city  of  San  Francisco,  where  I  lived,  gave 
me  a  handsome  majority.  That  was  American 
brotherhood;  that  was  California  manhood  on  its 
princely  side.  Whoso  has  once  felt  its  touch  never 
forgets  it.  And  it  might  also  be  said  that  whoso 
has  seen  Californians  when  their  wrath  was  kindled, 
as  in  the  stormy  days  and  nights  of  the  Vigilance 
Committee,  will  never  forget  that  side  of  the  pic- 
ture. 

Another  post-bellum  episode  of  California  life 
illustrates  what  Americans  are  on  their  good  side, 
and  gives  a  glimpse  of  the  California  that  holds, 
and  always  will  hold,  a  warm  place  in  my  heart. 
Some  of  my  readers  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  the 
dark  days  in  the  South  in  1867,  when  the  failure  of 
the  crops  brought  to  the  South  the  danger  of  fam- 
ine following  the  horrors  of  war.  As  the  accounts 
of  the  Southern  situation  that  reached  us  in  Cali- 
fornia became  more  and  more  distressing,  the  gen- 
erous hearts  of  the  Californians  were  touched  with 
genuine  sympathy.  From  week  to  week  the  dis- 
tressing facts  portending  this  trouble  in  the  South 
were  published  by  me  in  the  paper  I  was  editing  in 
San  Francisco.  From  Knight's  Ferry,  a  little  min- 
ing camp   on   the   Stanislaus   River,   the   sum   of 


240  Fifty  Years. 

$509.09  in  gold  was  contributed  by  the  settlers 
and  forwarded  to  me  at  San  Francisco,  with  instruc- 
tions to  transmit  the  money  to  General  R.  E.  Lee 
for  the  relief  of  any  of  the  families  of  Southern 
soldiers  in  Virginia  that  might  be  in  need  of  as- 
sistance. Following  my  instructions,  I  sent  the 
money  at  once.  In  due  course  of  the  mails  came 
this  note  of  acknowledgment  from  General  Lee : 

Lexington,  Va.,  i  June,  1867. 

My  Dear  Sir:  I  received  from  Messrs.  Lees  and  Waller,  of 
New  York,  $509  in  gold,  forwarded  by  you,  for  the  widows 
and  orphans  of  Southern  soldiers  in  Virginia,  which  I  will 
endeavor  to  apply  for  the  relief  of  those  most  requiring  aid. 

I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  express  my  individual  thanks 
to  you  and  the  generous  donors  for  the  aid  thus  given  to  the 
suffering  women  and  children  of  Virginia,  whose  grateful 
prayers  in  your  behalf  will,  I  am  sure,  be  registered  in  heaven. 

With  great  respect, 

Your  obedient  servant, 

R.  E.  Lee. 
Rev.  O.  P.  Fitzgerald. 

In  the  third  chapter  of  the  Old  Testament 
prophet  Malachi  there  is  an  allusion  which  was 
probably  present  to  the  mind  of  General  Lee  when 
he  spoke  of  prayers  "registered  in  heaven."  A 
Book  of  Remembrance  is  kept  by  Him  to  whom 
all  hearts  are  open,  all  desires  known,  and  from 
whom  no  secrets  are  hid.     The  mental  habitude 


California  in  War  and  Peace.         241 

and  method  ot  the  trained  soldier  and  the  unfalter- 
ing faith  of  a  man  of  God  find  expression  in  the  use 
of  this  figure. 

The  foregoing  modest  note  of  General  Lee  fed 
a  flame  that  was  already  kindled  in  the  hearts  of  the 
Californians.  A  movement  in  behalf  of  the  suffer- 
ing Southern  people  was  organized,  and  in  a  short 
time  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  gold  was  raised 
and  forwarded  to  the  relief  committees  in  the 
South,  without  a  discordant  note  among  the  con- 
tributors or  the  miscarriage  of  a  dollar. 
16 


FROM  PADAN-ARAM  BACK  TO 
BETHEL. 

(243) 


From  Padan-aram  Back  to  Bethel. 

On  a  bright  Sunday  morning  in  November, 
1902,  I  had  a  fresh  proof  of  a  Bible  truth  that  had 
long  been  dear  to  me.  This  is  the  way  it  came 
about:  With  some  doubt  whether  I  should  be  able 
to  go  through  with  it,  I  had  agreed  to  hold  on  that 
day  a  special  ordination  service  in  one  of  the  Meth- 
odist churches  of  East  Nashville.  Several  fea- 
tures of  the  occasion  invested  it  with  unusual  in- 
terest, and  I  had  made  special  prayer  that  the  wor- 
shipers might  then  and  there  be  blessed  of  the 
Lord,  trusting  that  I  myself  might  also  be  fed  with 
the  rest.  There  was  to  be  the  ordination  of  an 
elder,  an  informal  installation  of  church  officials, 
and  the  administration  of  the  sacrament  of  the 
Lord's  Supper.  This  prayer  was  in  my  heart: 
"Gracious  Lord,  in  thine  own  best  way  bless  me 
in  this  service."  It  is  obvious  enough  that  there 
was  too  much  of  it,  humanly  speaking,  even  for  a 
strong  man  in  full  health.  I  preached  after  a  fash- 
ion; I  exhorted  in  snatches;  I  went  through  the 
ritual  of  the  ordination;  I  improvised  a  form  of 
installation  of  church  officers;  and  while  I  felt  I  was 

(M5) 


246  Fifty  Years. 

trying  to  do  my  duty,  I  realized  that  my  wheels 
drave  heavily  indeed.  The  spirit,  I  said  to  myself, 
is  willing,  but  the  flesh  is  weak:  how  can  a  man  who 
knows  what  is  meant  by  the  words  "nervous  pros- 
tration" expect  to  find  again  much  of  light  or  life 
while  still  in  the  body  pent?  These  bodies!  how 
they  clog  our  movements  now!  The  heavenly 
vision,  seen  through  tear-blinded  eyes  and  the  film 
of  the  fleshly  veil,  is  dimmed.  So  I  said  to  myself; 
and  eager  as  I  was  to  get  a  blessing  from  the  Lord 
then  and  there,  and  that  the  service  might  be  made 
a  channel  of  blessing  to  the  hearts  of  the  people, 
the  exercises  proceeded  on  a  dead  level  of  decent 
dullness,  not  to  say  deadness — at  least  so  it  seemed 
to  me.  The  ministers  assisting  in  the  service  sang 
and  prayed  and  read  the  Scriptures  in  good  form; 
all  were  kindly  and  considerate  to  the  officiating 
brother,  whose  physical  weakness  touched  the 
thoughtful  sympathy  of  a  congregation  that  for 
successive  generations  had  been  trained  to  broth- 
erly kindness  and  hospitality.  My  inward  desire 
and  prayer  was  still  this:  "In  thine  own  best  way, 
gracious  Lord,  bless  me  in  this  service.  As  to  the 
manner  of  it,  and  in  all  things,  thy  will  be  done; 
but  where  we  are,  as  we  are,  and  as  we  need,  bless 
us,  Lord."     We  had  reached  the  prayer  of  conse- 


From  Padan-aram  Back  to  Bethel.    247 

cration  in  the  ritual  of  the  Lord's  Supper,  and  in 
making  the  general  confession  came  to  the  words, 
"Have  mercy  upon  us,  have  mercy  upon  us,  most 
merciful  Father:  for  thy  Son  Qur  Lord  Jesus 
Christ's  sake,  forgive  us  all  that  is  past" — when 
with  those  last  six  words  it  pleased  God  to  pour 
his  blessing  into  my  soul  in  his  own  best  way.  The 
fact  of  complete  absolution,  and  the  blessedness 
of  knowing  it  to  be  so — all  that  is  past  forgiven, 
and  the  witness  of  the  Holy  Ghost  thereto — it  was 
the  same  touch  I  had  felt  nearly  fifty  years  ago 
when  kneeling  at  the  chancel  I  laid  hold  of  the  hope 
set  before  me  in  the  gospel — the  same,  the  same! 
Like  a  flash  of  light,  this  thought  darted  through 
my  mind:  Suppose  you  had  never  before  this  hour 
heard  of  this  gospel  that  promises  to  the  penitent 
sinner  the  forgiveness  of  all  his  sins,  and  the  wit- 
ness within  of  the  fact  as  satisfying  as  if  the  pity- 
ing Christ  were  personally  present  to  speak  the 
word — if  this  were  your  first  perception  of  this 
truth  of  the  gospel,  and  your  first  experience  of 
what  it  means  to  be  a  pardoned  sinner — would  you 
not  realize  a  joy  that  might  truly  be  described  as 
unspeakable  and  full  of  glory?  I  do  humbly  trust 
that  as  I  had  come  to  that  sacramental  service 
without  any  conscious  cleaving  to  sin  in  any  form, 


248  Fifty  Years. 

or  any  sense  of  separation  from  God,  the  blessing  I 
needed  then  and  there  came  in  a  fresh  reminder  of 
this  truth  of  the  gospel — namely,  that  every  spirit- 
ual blessing  bestowed  upon  a  disciple  of  Christ,  at 
any  stage  of  his  experience,  may  be  and  ought  to 
be  an  imperishable  acquisition  to  the  riches  of  his 
inheritance  as  a  child  of  God  and  an  heir  of  glory. 
That  confession  and  renewal  of  my  vows  of  conse- 
cration on  that  fair  Sunday  morning  in  November, 
1902,  brought  the  same  touch  that  came  with  my 
conversion  in  1853.  Actual  and  entire  forgiveness 
of  sin,  and  the  actual,  indubitable  blessedness  of 
knowing  it  to  be  so — it  was  not  a  new  experience 
to  me;  and  yet  it  was  a  touch  of  the  glory  of  that 
new  life  which  is  new  forever.  It  was  an  illustration 
of  the  saying  that  the  true  believer  keeps  all  he 
gets  from  first  to  last,  his  path  shining  more  and 
more.  I  had  prayed  that  God's  holy  will  might  be 
done  in  me — and  it  then  and  there  came  to  pass 
that  the  servant  of  the  Lord  whose  prayer  had 
been  mostly  a  prayer  for  the  patience  he  had 
preached  to  others,  and  the  faith  that  endures  to 
the  end — it  came  to  pass  that  the  blessing  came  in 
the  same  way  as  it  came  when  first  he  knew  the 
Lord,  and  the  new  song  that  made  melody  in 
his  heart  then  and  there  was  after  all  onlv  the 


From  Padan-aram  Back  to  Bethel.    249 

sweet  old  song  of  degrees  which  is  a  new  song  for- 
ever. 

Into  my  mind  came  the  remembrance  of  the  ex- 
perience of  Jacob  in  his  old  age  at  Padan-aram 
when  the  Lord  appeared  to  him  the  second  time 
when  he  was  in  trouble  and  said  to  him,  ''I  am  the 
God  of  Bethel."  The  God  of  Bethel!— that  was 
enough.  It  was  at  Bethel  that  in  his  young  man- 
hood's prime  he  lay  that  night  under  the  silent 
stars,  and  saw  the  mysterious  ladder,  its  foot  on 
the  earth,  its  top  in  heaven,  whereon  the  angels  of 
God  were  ascending  and  descending;  it  was  at 
Bethel  that  he  heard  the  voice  of  God  promising 
his  presence  and  blessing  in  all  the  way  he  should 
go.  No  part  of  that  promise  had  failed.  The 
vision  of  Bethel  belonged  to  the  patriarch  in  his 
old  age  as  truly  as  it  did  the  next  morning  after  it 
was  given  to  him.  No  good  thing  is  lost  by  the 
servant  of  God  who  follows  the  path  of  duty.  The 
gifts  of  God  are  without  repentance.  "Heaven 
and  earth  may  pass,  but  my  word  shall  not  pass," 
saith  the  Lord.  This  is  the  message  that  came 
with  the  blessing  I  needed  that  November  Sunday 
morning:  No  good  thing  is  lost.  And  the  best 
things  are  to  come.  We  will  take  them  as  they 
come — and  they  will  keep  coming  in  God's  own 


250  Fifty  Years. 

good  time  and  in  his  own  best  way.  From  my 
own  Padan-aram  back  to  my  Bethel  I  traced  the 
way  by  which  I  had  been  led — and  was  glad. 

This  seems  to  be  a  good  place  for  me  to  say 
again:  All  that  goes  into  our  experience,  conscious- 
ness, and  character  in  this  life — every  blessing  we 
get  from  God — we  keep  forever.  Treasures  of 
knowledge,  treasures  of  memory,  treasures  of  af- 
fection are  thus  "laid  up"  by  us.  The  blessing  of 
the  Lord  gives  imperishability  to  all  the  experi- 
ences of  the  soul  that  has  entered  into  the  new 
life  of  faith,  and  walks  uprightly.  From  such  no 
good  thing  will  he  withhold  now;  from  such  no 
good  thing  will  he  ever  withdraw. 


JUST  ANOTHER  WORD. 

(25') 


Just  Another  Word. 


In  this  book  I  have  said  some  things  I  did  not  intend  to 
say,  and  left  unsaid  many  things  I  did  intend  to  say.  I  had 
half  a  purpose  to  sketch  a  life  that  has  touched  mine  for 
good  for  many  years — a  life  that  furnishes  proof  to  me  that 
the  religion  of  Christ  is  not  merely  a  record  of  dead  ideals 
and  faded  glories,  but  a  revelation  and  promise  to  willing 
souls  of  the  very  blessedness  that  God  will  impart  now.  That 
purpose  has  been  abandoned  for  reasons  that  will  be  under- 
stood by  indulgent  friends  who  will  be  ready  to  condone  all 
errors  of  omission  or  commission  they  may  detect  in  these 
pages,  and  give  me  credit  for  good  intentions. 

(253) 


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